The old man fingered the strings of his old guitar;
they throbbed deep with feeling and sang high as the stars;
like none before, the notes struck reverberant hearts.
I begged, “Teach me your style, your songs, and all their parts.”
What? My style? I don’t know … I would suppose
it’s learned and mellowed along life’s long roads,
from things that weigh, wiggle, and lift the load,
from heartbreak, joy, and mis-stepping boldly,
from dancing and kneeling, love, and living alone,
from those crippled, the war torn, and babies born,
while keeping alive those you have buried.
It’s learning how to hold your own guitar,
the hollow universe that resonates far.
You still have a very young life to live
learning the makings of style you give.
Never ask how many notes in the song,
just play without ceasing, it won’t be wrong.
