I worry of the present offer, seemingly too good to be
true as when it was long ago shiny, new. We remember
the strings and whirlwinds of instruments we once were.
The music, now as we silently cry. Outside, the winter
world and its storms may spin. Drumbeating rain may go
distant and distal. And all that is left, the world, or worms.
And then, silence, no resonance, the end. Ever still,
I touch the neck, the fingerboard, open the ear and yes,
I shall hold on to my hope, this friend, this wooden grain,
deep enclosed space where by His stripes we are healed.
my soul, its sound may forever begin again with no end.