If I don't find the words
to what you're playing
my wooden heart  will
never beat its knowing.

I hear the rhythm of
your fingers strumming
and in my box an echo
it is humming.

Sound and its vibration
is confusing while
rhyming meters differ
to our tuning.

String along with me
while I am fretting
because each note you
hit I am forgetting.

Once when to a tree
there was a telling
a secret so profound
it is compelling.

In tangle woods of
briars and of sallies
where bird sone can be
heard in glen and valleys.

This epic of a king and
of his barber, to me was
brought in octaves
by a warbler.

Arpeggio's and mute barre
chords had me trembling
I'm recalling now what
memory's assembling.

Not finished yet
another verse needed.