For Uncle Fiddle Man

Fiddle Man
~ by David Davis

The old man took the fiddle,

his glasses perched just right.

Trembling hands caressed the bow,

and made the notes take flight.

His heart a-flutter,

as the music swept

around the border of memories;

lovingly held close.

The country crowd

waltzed around the hall,

as generations had before.

They wheeled in step

and turned in time,

as they whirled around
the floor.

The fiddle man

played winter blasts,

and spring's enduring rains.

He fiddled sharp the happiness,

the bitterness and pain.

He fiddled love and all he'd seen,

in all his ninety years.

He fiddled broken lover's hearts

till he brought them all to tears.

When the dance was over,

He took his hat and hickory cane,

He smiled at his audience,

and he never played again.

His kind old heart gave up that night,

He found eternal rest.

The mountains lost their biggest soul,

Now, he plays for heaven's guests.

But sometimes in the springtime,

after a cooling evening rain,

they say he walks the mountain trails

and fiddles there again.

You can hear the wistful music

up on Fiddler's Ridge,

as it echoes down the hollows

past the old upper pasture bridge.

I believe our Uncle Fiddle Man is playing that last song in his heart right now. He has shared his love of music with our whole family, especially our Moose. I am sad to hear that he will soon be leaving us, but know his love of music will live on.