Lonnie Hicks (www.lonniehicks.com / Chicago Ill)

Her instrument fluttered like the humming bird
a harp humming strumming true
kneaded the Carolina gloaming.

Her hands were violin pure
her eyes twinkled like a harpsichord;

I, her eager audience,
sit memorized
by her fluttering finger-tips
inveighing a sorrowful tune
which came pouring over me
in the shaded night
on the patio
where she plays the piano
newly tuned, and I, new visitor
and suitor
am with her grandmother sitting chaperon
asking
'My boy what do you do?

It was the Latin American Way;
I lift my voice:
'I worship your grand-daughter;
she is my career
and I bask in the marvelment of the beauty
her mother and grand-ma-ma
have contributed to this moment;
this evening
where I benefit this star-lit night,
where moonbeam and fire-flies highlight
your granddaughter's hair
and I sit knowing I will never see
the marriage aisle with her-
I am from another continent-
but I sit this night content-
with mere proximity
reeling in the experience.'
Grand-mama smiled at the perspicacity.

Some times love offered
is the heart practicing
for a future use.