-
-
September morning
He’s tall as a tower, my son — graceful
in the resilient way
of bamboo, lithely connected
at joints and knuckles.
With guitar he eases out
a tune’s vulnerabilities, bending
fingers and strings as if not
bending at all, as if he were himself
the curve of wind on
a leaf ribbon,
tapping dew-riffs out of air.
Wind is the maestro,
we the geniuses who play
our one sublime
sound — tapering,
sometimes stuttering, ruffled
into harmonics, being blown
with the rest into a song untouchable.
Our son took a bad fall last week and broke a bone in three places. It’s times like this, on this day of remembered tragedy, that we see how fragile and vulnerable we all are.
--
