The feel of it smooth in my hands, The taste of reed in my mouth, Some piece of life I abandoned far too long, Battered and old, Touches of green on gold I'll spend days, Stressing to find the natural flow, Remembering infancy and desperation to speak, It's right as rain and hard as hell, Wavering cracking squeaking, Like a teenager trying to sing, But none of that matters, Not if I can strike a true note at will, Someday I'll have different words, The kind that don't push pictures, But will break your heart and leave you loving it, Simple brass but it gleams in spots, One more bit of polish, In every hard-earned breath.
By: Daniel A. Stafford (C) 10/16/2003
Author's Comments: A touch on picking back up a saxophone after 29 years.
Words are the mind's bridge - it's connection to the universe. Love is the heart's bridge - it's connection to all other souls. Loving words can work miracles.