That Summer Morning

On a bright summer morning

I take out my guitar, and weave

Songs out of nylon-stringed vibration, each

Note a tiny thread in my tapestry. I make

Chords like rainbows and

Melodies of flowing colors while

Rhythms sway like autumn trees. The

Soreness in my left fingertips light

Fire to my notes and they burn around me.

When I finish I stand up,

Stretch, look down at my thighs,

See a long curving mark

And am reminded (again!)

Never to play guitar in shorts.