Tige

This is a poem to my grandfather, Tige
who played the guitar and
sang with his friends.
Songs of yesteryear filled your house.
Songs of love, despair, pain, hope.
Songs of your roots from Appalachia to Ireland.
Slender fingers touched each chord
with a lovers sensual caress,
making each sound delightfully clear.
Five grandchildren sat in the presence of
the master to learn.
"Follow my fingers," you would say to us all
and we did. We followed. Mimicking each movement.
You shared your whole life with us
and then died...but the music didn't.
You saw to that.
Didn't you Tige?
I picked up my guitar today and played
your songs of yesteryear.
I followed your fingers, your teachings,
your words, your life.
Today, as my children sit at my feet,
I too will teach them the way of the music
and all your lessons of life through the songs.
Follow my fingers children.
Watch me and learn.

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