Magic Air

This prompt hit home a little. I’ve been slowly learning guitar and all too often fail to practice. My pretty, blue Epiphone sits quietly as the magic it’s capable of weaving is simply lost to time.  I really should do better.
Prompt: “Base your poem around the plight of a musician who hasn’t picked up the guitar or touched a piano in years.”


Seeing a whisp of magic air

I stopped to ponder whence it came

I follow the draft to my olden muse

Rusty strings glint in the sunlight

Both sad and hopeful

 

I reach out with trembling fingers

Then holding back, I catch fear

 

We once spun light and wonder

How can I best myself?

I cannot hope to be what was

 

Days turned years of glances in yearning, nostalgia

Finally not at all – I realize now I was wrong

 

Even so, surely I am forgiven

My fingers have grown rusty as the strings

Am I responsible for time?

 

I begin to walk away but am caught by magic air

A friend is calling me, do I have the heart to listen?

 

I return and picking up my string-ed wand

My fingers find the resting place they’d forgotten

A curse has been lifted: I’ve remembered my love

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