The Framer

Between me, the strings, and the frame on the wall,

My fingertips will never be beautiful.

What they produce, however

Will be my most beautiful qualities.

From the glossy gold metal, engraved with damask,

Wrapped in silky beige linens,

To the linen bandage wrapped around my index;

I give my flesh to the craft.

Bronze and nylon sing to my callouses;

Create deep valleys from plains of flesh.

I cut myself pruning the aloe plant;

I cut another to compensate.

Between me, the strings, and the frame on the wall,

Is song more transparent than glass,

A chord stronger than cord and nail,

A lifetime of servitude to the craft.

-s.c.g