Music

We pour out our hearts.

You sing it every waking hour.

I see your fingers moving on their own,

tapping, remembering, capturing the sounds.

I love what we do, selling our souls

to the beast they call music that others might know

there's more to these tunes, to these rhythms, these melodies.

There's chords, progressions, notes, technique.

I forget where the instrument ends and then there's me,

but you, you capture each little note

in its purest, most beautiful essence

you move with the flow, follow each diminuendo

As much as I don't know where my music comes from

I wonder how it is you exist without it.

We'll keep listening and playing, moving and driving,

attempting to capture art in all its purity

Long nights, long days-- I feel it all,

but you sit each day, ready and eager,

giving your soul, your heart, your mind, your body,

building and ebbing, beautifully crafting

in order to give the most human of things:

feeling and love and art

unchanged and always changing since the beginning of time.

You were crafted in the manner of Jubal,

and I see it now

as you give your heart to share humanity with all.