Essence of Old Kentucky

Heat waves rise

when I pull the bow.

White road dust swirling

around my fingers

I can smell the land,

the years,

the maker.

Moving up the scales,

mocking birds and rattlesnakes

hum in my ear,

their melody twists

down my arms

in swirls,

staccato, tears

vibrato.

Black descends into rusty sunset.

The Mahogany enters

eyes, ears, mouth.

Takes over spaces behind sight,

silence past the beating drum,

gives a taste like

darkest chocolate.

Held up by string, by bridge,

by sound.

Conforming to my shape,

memories sing to me each time I come.

Each reel, strathspey,

gently rests in my fingertips.

Songs as old as home.