I watched how a reed-thin,
high-tenored man
standing alone on a concert stage
threw back his head and sang,
and how we opened our throats
and answered.
He sang a world small
enough to rest in my girl’s palm.
All the languages became mine,
lilt and sway of continents.
High in my swing, I claimed
the open sky, the rivers,
the history, the rhythm.
He sang me quiet lessons of
what mattered,
and lived the lessons.
Now my daughter joins us,
with a child’s high voice.
We still sing together,
he and I.
I measure myself against his length,
grateful for the truth
straight as a banjo neck,
stretching towards the new day.
