My third arm
An acoustic guitar
Painting an audible mural
Brushed my fingers
That bleed passion
And feed the heart
No need for eyes
And none for words
We'll share it all
Through vibrations
Which mend the hurt
Channeled through shaped mahogany
And tightly wound copper
Our soul soliloquies
Poems at eighty decibels

Perched up for what could have been a century              
A living statue, innate onlooker, weathered survivor
Now dying and giving in to the gentle pull of Earth
Bathing in broken sunlight, we ate dinner,
looking on through the kitchen window
Watched you transform and grow downward
Watched you lose limb, then limb again
Looking out the dinning room window every night
In the wind, we watched it sway as it hung from you
Like an aging man, a creased face and graying hair
I stood at dusk, in the pasture
I admired your bending stance against the backdrop of a descending sun
It too shall have the same fate
And so shall I

Three weeks of dryness and the rain is now approaching.
On the back porch under the tin awning, I sit on the swing and face you.
You've been watching the field ahead, awaiting the oncoming storm.
We spot the rain as it approaches from across the field.
A flowing wave of dying weeds dance towards us,
set in motion and livened by the rain as it quickly approaches.
You turn my way as a few initial drops land on the awning, loud and inciting.
The silence of the drought is broken by thousands of raindrops landing continuously against the tin.
For the first time in what seems like years, you turn my way and speak.
With eyes as intent as the downpour, I see your lips moving, your voice muted by the rain.
The dry ground is now wet.
You turn, once more, towards the field.
Together, we watch in silence.
Saying nothing.
Saying everything.