I'M Not A Luthier Poem by .Beth Webster

I know nothing of stringed instruments.
I just like to fix guitars, ones that are missing parts,
ones that have been left in cold places.
I don't find them. They find me,
and I'll take in any one that isn't stolen,
fix it up, and find it a new home.
The work takes patience, a gentle touch.
It's not six strings on a metal box.

The news of the world and people who are mean
wear me down each day. This instrument,
(like that little white cat over there,)
reminds me how I have to behave, always.
Sometimes when I am working on a guitar
a vibration seems to come from within.
The tone echoes in the air. A voice emerges
in response to what might be called love.
The proof is in the playing. Sweet guitar.
Sometimes I think the spirit of a tree lives there,
and only music will cause it to forgive us
for cutting it down.