Callused Fingers

December 13th, 2019

My life is somehow coarser now.

My song has textures I must sing.

My calloused fingers hitting strings,

each note is rough, yet still they ring.

The clouds of gray envelope hues

that long for light and cause despair.

Yet right behind lie clear blue skies,

cerulean beyond compare.

Corduroy pants and fur-lined jackets

expose the need of a warmth unknown.

A need of body and of spirit,

seldom quenched by joy alone.

Yet leaves that rustle by the door

and hummingbirds that grace my view

remind of details full of love

and promise days of life renewed.

The highs and lows that fill my song,

echoing tales by Robert Frost,

are a kind of braille sent by God

meant to give sight to what's been lost.

I now exist with eyes wide open

prepared for textures, both smooth and rough,

so long as He provides two things.

Callused fingers and a life of love.