Making Music

Making music

You place it in my arms
As if handing me a newborn.
I cradle it
Feeling the sensuousness
Of the smooth wood
As I mold my body around
Its gentle curves.

I touch my naked fingers to the strings
And feel the first hint of the work to come.
My touch is rewarded by a soft mellow voice
But  I feel the first pain, the foreknowledge
That I will have to give of myself to get what I want.

My fingers remember chords I learned decades ago
But strength has ebbed.
I scrape a pick across the strings
And the sound is mushy, garbled, impure.
Will I ever honor this beautiful guitar
By helping it sing as it should?

You teach me.
Give me suggestions.
Encourage me.

Over and over. Again and again. Error after error,
I practice my assignments.
I play until my fingertips ache
And the pick flies out of my hand into the sound box.

We find songs that push my skills
 You gracefully play a melody
And I doggedly strum along.
Keeping up.
Sometimes glorious
Sometimes terrible
But with steady improvement and hope.

I hold it in my arms
As if cradling a newborn.
Feeling the sensuousness
Of the smooth wood
As I mold my body around
Its gentle curves

I strum the chords
To accent your beautiful playing
Rising and falling with you
As we joyously make music together.



Dianne May 2014