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On Hearing Mike Seeger's Banjo
By James Strecker
November, 2005, 22:08

walk, my own companion,

around the mountainside.

My song hangs rooted,

unending and true, in time

invisible. The voice I find

myself singing clings to earth

like the moss-green dipping

of time. Then it sings, in this

valley, each genesis of song

that still knows another

beginning. And I, once born,

am born in song to a scattering

of seeds. The lifting sky rolls

overhead into a loneliness I

know. It strings this garden

of weed, of ancestor and grave

into tapestry. I find salvation

in the sweated brow of my

songs, songs that dance

to live or die and need no

salvation. I frail again

in one more telling of my

ashes, here, and dance into

morning when the neighbours,

gone home, arise into days

of callused hands. And I lay

my banjo on grasses that

like my heart, once again

in holy, happy craving

of music, sing twice this day:

once the purity of dawn,

once beside the wind

that begins all things and

is green somehow in the

darkest darkness of time.

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2004 James Strecker

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