Daddy's Girl

My father's hands coax melodies from his old beat-up guitar
Half-asleep I sit close by and absently, we harmonize -
Our music must be permanent, though few things ever are.

It was here that I was lulled to sleep, off to dreamlands far
From the tiny world that was all I knew, blinking shut my baby eyes
As my father's hands coaxed melodies from his old beat-up guitar.

And now I am a grown-up girl, and time's begun to mar -
I catch the moments that his fingers fumble; sure enough, they bring surprise,
But our music must be permanent, though few things ever are!

As I am somehow no longer a child, Perfection has raised its bar
It's become a feat to hang the stars and moon up in my skies -
still, my father's hands coax melodies from his old beat-up guitar.

When did his hair morph to silver grey? The sight comes with a shocking jar -
I've watched it turn but it seems its truth has long been in disguise.
Still, our music must be permament, though few things ever are!

At least, I've tried to make it so, tried with my fears to spar,
But with each year it becomes more like lashing out with delusional lies -
Will my father's hands still coax melodies from his old beat-up guitar?
Can our music be permanent, when few things ever are?

-Siri Hammond, 02/06/09w
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