A classical guitarist
inhales the deep breath of
a singer poised to belt out a note.
A river of sound flows from his fingertips,
rippling through the air,
massaging the listener’s eardrums upon entry.
Flamenco skirts and cobblestone streets
take shape in the mind’s eye.
The classical guitarist’s performance
is not the dazzling spectacle of a rock star,
but rather a rare invitation to peek in
on an artist’s private workspace.
At times he closes his eyes, as if to forget
an audience is watching and fully tune in
with the visceral vibrations
his muscles know so well.
Guitar strings move like extensions of his skin,
master and instrument playing one another
in symbiotic harmony.
To an untrained ear,
the melodies sound arrhythmic, even erratic,
but to the master and his colleagues,
they make perfect sense;
a secret language only they speak.
It is enough
to delight in the sheer beauty
of those syllables,
foreign though they may be.
A measure’s final note
with a fading vibrato –
yes, the beauty is more than enough.