Finger Sliding
by Odin Roark

Sunday afternoon…

Memories washing across one’s inner shorelines,
where past emotions revisit
atop melancholy’s ebb and tide,
splaying at the sands of a vanishing cellular-shoreline,
like fingertips hovering over guitar strings,
spanning from right hand picking
to a fret’s left hand welcome,
like mini-sandcastles
expanding,
contracting,
echoing images,
as only the strummer can see
inside the inner ear of his setting sun,
knowing the calm far beyond the horizon,
is still some vibrations away
remaining vigilant for echo’s final resolve.

A knowing smile winks at hope’s tenacity.

So many more Sunday afternoons await.