The Musician

He tunes and he listens, No place for devices. And he writes till his fingers bleed, Yet rarely revises. For love speaks through him, Tis’ an act of God. His art conceives harmony, His spectrum be broad. He strums and he sings, Like a bird to the sun. And emulates every lyric, Second to none. As the ballad winds down A tear creeps down his face, In memory of lineage And this musical place. This musician is me, And I cannot deny The power Debra has To bring tears to my eye.