Guitar

Softly, he played his guitar

Not for me or anyone else

But for himself

Riffing on jazz themes

Smiling in amusement

As his practice made perfect

Sense for a grey day

Sliding through gentle waves

A wash of sound cleansed the air

Resonating as deep as ocean

Ephemeral as a seagull’s cry

 

 

David Trudel    ©  2013

 

 

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