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.