No callus

I believe we are always singing, somehow.  Perhaps it*s just the accompaniment that changes. 

In his collection of Bengali poems, Gitanjali, Rabindranath Tagore writes that the song he wanted to sing has never happened because he has spent his days 'stringing and unstringing' his instrument.

Source:  Joyce Rupp, OSM, May I Have This Dance?  (courtesy of Inward/Outward.org)

I played guitar for years.

Now it sits upstairs behind the chair.

Sometimes,

Not very often,

I pick it up.

My heart has things

It wants to express.

Of course the guitar

Is always

Out of tune.

Most of the time I spend

Getting it to a place

I can play

Again.

Then my fingers

Remind me,

I have not played

For years.

They have not retained

Their callus.

My fingers are soft.

The strings leave dents.

Still I sing.

I dreamed I bought a flute

In Iceland.

I planned to learn to play

On my way home.

I returned

Flute in hand.

I do not know the first thing

About flutes.

I imagine I play anyway.

I have a vivid imagination.

There is music

In my bones.

My heart has things

It wants to express.

There is music

In my heart.

Still no callus

On my fingers.