tune

Like the strum of the guitar

My body moves to the chords 

I create with my fingers.

I know the sound I am meant 

To hear 

And yet I know that the 

Strings are out of tune.

All it takes is a tiny twist

Of the knobs but each twist 

Pulls at the strings 

With each memory tied to them 

Like the knapsack on the stick 

That the child takes on their first ever 

Journey across the river.

Each twist of the knob and 

Each pull of the strings takes me

Back to those memories 

I carry along my back 

My knapsack filled with 

Rocks and stones 

And none of them precious 

And they all seem too heavy 

To carry and I seem to buckle 

And may fall off the track,

But I step

I strum my fingers after

The first twist and

I hear it,

The sound meant to come

From the strums of the strings 

And I play, 

Until I hear the sound of the tune 

Out of place 

And I do it all over again.