Ancient Joy

To feel your breath in your fingers, as once

I read it, is to receive instant feedback,

immediate expression of your art;

to hold in your hands, tunes older than you.

And out the back door with the punters.

All those who don’t understand this joy.

 

This ancient joy.

 

A little St. Patrick’s Day poem, courtesy of the five hour gig I played with Emerald Road. I don’t really want you all out the back door, don’t worry. Tongue in cheek and all that.

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