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