tiny pink pearls on a toddler girl's lacy socks
opalescent pearls on a ten-year-old’s sweater
her first string of pearls given to her by her daddy at age twelve
pearls on her wedding gown against shiny hopeful white satin
Wind is blowing through your hair
I can't help it, I just stare
So beautiful, a treasure key
A living, breathing symphony
Your conductor's ready, right on cue
Tonight the masterpiece is you
Baton held high, the count is four
Your first string's played and he wants more
unlike a fine
wine never
sold before
it's time
my guitar was
literally bargin
basement
quality
first you must
understand
the rules
defining
eventually
denying
what
was
and now is
underlying
other then
stripped
gears that state
perfection's name
but the twelfth fret
of the first string has
a buzz
so that's
not good
enough for
Martin
Thumbs hold first-string
position in the hand.
They send messages
everyone understands.
Thumbs up say,
“You did it.
Go get it!”
Thumbs down say,
“You blew it.
You’ll regret it!”
Thumbs out signal,
“Get ‘outta’ here,
please disappear.”
Thumbs forward coax,
“Come here,
gimme a hug.”
Arms form columns,
but thumbs speak volumes.
Your middle finger
speaks its own language.
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