How these old fingers can still pluck at these strings…
They seem to have a memory that leaves me bewildered…
Even before “ I wore a younger mans clothes “…
I still hear their voices…
as if they are recorded within the memories of each note…
“ Telling my whole life “ with a pluck of each string…
Sometimes it is a “ shattered memory of the way we were “…
There are moments when a melody plays over and over…
A dozen or more cords carried in the winds of time…
One person’s memory ignites another, and another…
All those linked through loves frequency…
For love is what created eternity…
A Poet's Haven 
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