She never learned to play herself;
There’s was a part of her that always yearned
To try, to find the song hidden in those strings.
There was a part of her that thought, perhaps,
If she understood the mechanics
the magic would be gone.
Her father strummed a steel string and sang
The songs he fell in love to;
Her lullabies were Blackbird and Wonderful Tonight;
Daisy Jane awoke in her a melancholy
That she clung to like a well-loved blanket.
Summer nights were rain-rattled windows,
The drag of her father’s fingers along the frets,
And his smoke-cragged voice,
singing Clapton.