The notes swirled ’round the air,
a flying carpet of sound beneath her,
lifting cares away like magic,
transporting to a golden shore.
Strings plucked and strummed together,
fingers govern pitch, from high to low,
vibrations within a hollow body,
escape in a stream through a central hole.
The guitar has many moods,
governed by the one that holds her,
from twang to mellow honey,
a shape-shifter of unlimited disguise.
© 2016 DM Shepherd