Meditation on the Guitar’s Wood

by Dennis Camire

The artist who carved it knew of the
former tree’s grand canopy of leaves
being a Carnegie Hall housing, for centuries,

a symphony of blue jays, chickadees,
and crows plucking the string instruments
of their throats while crickets, in the duff ’s

orchestra pit, stroked their sexed legs’
cellos. Indeed — with each inspired riff —
The guitar recalls the Joni Mitchell of whip o wil

Or Lou Rawls of bard owl who first crooned
such blessed tunes when the tree was a sapling
standing in the mosh-pit of maple or mahogany groove

for each dawn’s concert. Composing, then,
consider the past life memories of cardinal mating calls
leading the two of you to discern the chord progression

and words for a love song which sky writes your soul’s horizon —
so, soon, you see how you may be collaborating
with a graduate of the Julliard of the jungle

where birds of paradise songs’ still resonate
in her wood grains’ DNA; and, nights,
you set her beside the window with you

to be inspired by the blues man of loon
echoing from moose pond; and on stage —
falling into that deep flow state — you know
why you equate this wordless-ecstasy with flight
and feathered wings plucking the strings
of moon, star and sunlight.