My ukulele lays useless
in its gig bag today.
It’s too hot to drag out all
the melody and spill it into
California desert air.
The four strings outstretched
from bridge to neck,
quietly arching over the
sound hole. Maybe when
the sun lowers and my
fingers feel their nimble
tickle again, I may
pick up this slumbering baby
and hush the whimpering silence.
It lays there before me with such
forceful potential. What has
worked before, writing words and
plucking tunes in the late afternoon,
seems so terribly out of order and
impossible to do today. My warm
head listens more carefully for the
first full suggestion of sleep,
while my fingers delight in this
stilling, lull of movement.
Rancho Mirage, CA.