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.
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