Late afternoon, early spring,
When dogwoods bloom outside the window,
I try to steal some time
For myself, cradle the banjo,
And my hand hovers the strings.
I’m trying to steal an older time, too,

As I finger the first phrase
Of "Soldier’s Joy," the melody dips
Down to low D, slips back up the scale
By thirds, and the notes throb and pop
Off the head’s tense skin.
Time slides backward; I recall

My grandmother’s trembling chin,
Her voice rise over the kitchen sink, carry
Out the window screen into the evening
Deepening toward fall:
"I’m my momma’s pride and joy..."
I ran from the house to play

In the last light, past where the paperboy
Threw the morning news, forgotten
In the tall grass, the headline lying
Face down and crying,
"Boys Are Coming Home."
Everywhere the horizon darkens,

And my right hand wrings my inheritance
From the banjo’s wood and brass.
I treasure the tune like a letter from home and long
For more, homesick as any inmate,
Gazing at the dogwoods and the past
Through the bars of a song.

--Curtis Harrell

reprinted from The Old Time News
Number 38, Summer 2004
by permission from the author