Don't speak to me of love and loss,
try quieting your visions ,
just play the guitar, you alchemist of hope,
just play a song to reconcile our paths;
if gravity is strong enough to stand,
he'll lift a finger,
(more)
pluck a string--
he'll make us weep for no good reason other than
his bellowing voice,
is bouncing off the hallways of our youths,
honest.
He'll play the guitar, my love,
when we are old and wreckless, having learned the things we thought we knew when the skies were orange.
Your wrinkled fingers felt it all, and saw it all,
and spoke it all.
I've listened to your heart for years,
when my own joy was not enough,
and when it was,
I heard your screams and cries and tears
dripping
into gutters long abandoned.
Sometimes I smell molasses and remember what it sounds like when you sing,
it smells like a smile,
overflowing from the eyes,
and covering a wound.
Play the guitar, infinite heart,
the orange is fading from the skies,
and my little birds are coming home.
Play it for them,
for they have traveled far, far,
and will be gone again by morning.(less)
