invisiable to history

You sit, transfixed momentarily
concentrating – though he teases you,
calls you nervous.

But you’re everywhere
everywhere you were ever meant to be.

You

up on stage, under lights
you take them all.  Take every adoring glance
that comes your way.  The awe filled sighs
entwine with your melody.

Blonde hair, brown eyes,
nimble fingers and a troubled past.  

Sitting straight
backed in a chair; a holdover
from years at Papa’s dinner table.  

The guitar.

You play and dream of
years to come and who you’ll grow to be:
teacher, bride, mother, friend.  

All lost now in chords and rhythm
and the harmony of reverent silence.  

You don’t know me.  Here I don’t exist,
not but in dreams of blonde hair and brown eyes
and a guitar, deep in your heart.

So it becomes, this is the song I dream to, tonight.