Calloused fingers on my beloved, strumming guitar strings.
She smiles through dark hair, and her litling voice sweetly sings.
Those rough edges pluck out tones so high and sweet and true.
Watching her and her scruffed up guitar, after our angels bitterly flew.
Songs of joy and sorrow and to chase away the death in our cold bones.
Songs that tell of birth and of death and ones so sweet they drew tears from stones.
She sings them all, calling the sun down from the sky and a light we know in art.
She sings them and it reminds me this night if finite, and with first light me must part.
She puts down the guitar, pullls my head in her lap, the pool of her soft, cotton dress.
Her calloused fingers stroking my chin, the hardness and loss that bring out tenderness.
Her head turns down, and her long dark hair pulls a veil over the stars, her face the sun.
The light of her eyes, her smile, her grace, and I know better than heaven I have won.