There was wisdom in those hands,
as much music in them
as any voice.
His wrinkled fingers could strum a soul to life,
and the chords he coaxed
nearly effortlessly from his ancient tool
spoke indignantly against injustice,
wrongdoing, hatred,
while calling out for righteousness.
His spirit lay plain at rest
until those hands took to their
trade, and as it soared
amongst the lofty places of
our dreams, the updraft
from the last flap of his mighty wings
keeps us in flight,
right there with him.
Author notes
*sigh* I guess it feels good to write about him.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Wow! It feels good to read a Ross poem. There is so much compassion behind this poem. AMAZING!
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It's been too long since I've been on the site. This was a very very nice welcome back. Thanks. You're wonderful. Amazing piece, as always.
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