He plays the guitar
\nby the stove,
\nhis beard a premature gray,
\nhis hair black like an Indian,
\nhis eyes blue as English.
\nHe opened my heart,
\nmy father,
\nstroking the old Gibson,
\nthe smell of wood burning,
\ntea in the plump pot,
\nbrewing its mahogany red.<\/p>\n
Dad played his songs,
\nold songs,
\nthe best songs he said,
\nfor me and my brother,
\nin the winter,
\nour small voices joining his.
\nThe green walls of the kitchen,
\ncracked paint,
\nlike his hands
\nwith great blue veins,
\neyes far away
\nas he played.
\nFolk tunes,
\n1920 tunes,
\nstory songs,
\npoetry songs,
\nwistful longings.
\nA tune of trains
\nand whiskey.<\/p>\n
And we sang until our voices tired,
\nand the tea was gone,
\nand sleep tugged at our eyes,
\nas he put his guitar aside.
\nWe went off,
\nas he stoked the stove,
\nletting the fire consume its ashes
\nin one last burst of flame.
\nThen he came to our room.
\nkissing us into dreams
\nas pleasant as eternal summer,
\nwhere he plays the old songs,
\nthe best songs,
\nthe three of us singing
\nsomewhere,
\ntogether.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
He plays the guitar by the stove, his beard a premature gray, his hair black like an Indian, his eyes blue as English. He opened…<\/p>\n