Watching My Son

A poem by Jane Everham

Watching My Son Pick lost,
strummin' with a dime.
Long fingers
gentle on the neck,
pressing frets, reaching straight.
Large, pudding eyes
look
Body leans
listens, feels the chords.
Black hair and two black brows
rarely knitted in consternation.
Ease, no smile
just the pursed
lips of concentration
a song released
into the air.
– Jane Everham