The prophetic fingers of his right hand
catch the edge of each string
the precise tip of each finger
pulls the string true.
His wrist is a metronome
slowly gliding
back and forth
across the six strings.
His geometric left hand finds
the traditional forms:
right angle, triangle, straight line.
Line segment. Parallelogram.
These fingers step through the scale
to reveal the tune hidden
in the square grid.
His smoke-cured voice weaves the wire
where each note and word hangs.
The room is warm as whiskey
and I draw close to the tune.
I lean my head into the circle of notes.
Our voices wind together.
As padre plays guitar.
20Jan07