Playing My Tinwhistle
Playing my tinwhistle in the sun
Morning came and now has gone
While I piped a tune for you
Blew it out across the blue
In the winds that swiftly fly
Across the distance to your sigh
Sweet and clear my music floats
Filled by you my piping notes
So you a whistle may then hear
Some soft brush across your ear
My tender lips you will not see
A wisp of a lament
Sent from the heart of me
November 24, 1995 | For Sue
Honestly, this poem makes me laugh a bit– my dad was such a geek with his tinwhistle. Call it his Irish roots. He was first-generation American and very proud of his Irish heritage. Know matter how poor we were, he always had his tin green-tipped whistles. Which he apparently played for Sue, on this day… whoever Sue is.
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