There Was Always Music

There was always music in my grandparents' country home,
banjo and fiddle and squeezebox,
harmonica and tambourine.

Songs of the piney woods
voiced by tall dark uncles
in sweat-stained fedoras,
and red-haired aunts
wearing gingham dresses and hose with seams.

In the starlit, shadowed evening
we flew on our young wings
through the yard to capture
fireflies in out little hands.

We sometimes landed
on the dewy grassy ground
to tap our bare feet in rhythm
with the music of our grownups
lifted high in southern song.

Then we'd fly off in the twilight
making music of our own.