Tonight's Poet Corner: Song Book

Song Book
by Belinda Roddie

It began with a spider weaving before a wedding,
spinning by the broken barn burning without heat
or sun. And after that, I was never the same.

My hometown was quite the brewing ground
for rhythm and melody. It was there, in sharp
contrast to cold suburbia, that I confronted

my nemesis, that the phoenix rose from the ashes
only to find it could not let go of its creator, that
I desired to keep warm through a frosted December

(that, admittedly, seems to grow warmer by
the decade). But in another town, where my
fingers flickered across the fretboard after

hours of clinging to a pen, I discovered a hearth
of harmonious stories when nestled in a circle
with my musically inclined friends. I strummed;

they picked, plotted, pounded, and pattered
keys on a piano, stick to drum, as I made them
hang upside down, serenade a miracle child,

talk to imaginary heroes and drink from
the fountain of youth. They let me see them
smile. And they had their own tales, too.

I know, despite my hands growing quieter
on the strings, there is more to tell. There is
more to compose and more to sing. Perhaps,

in the grand scheme of things, this town, this
county, this land is not nearly as inspiring
since I met a man named Governor. While

there is much to be said of my home's beauty
and its impact on my song book, I know one
thing that will always stay poignant to me,

and it is this: Without Ireland, we would not have
our own personal system. And there would be
no yellow roses.