I still sing to you when I visit
I used to sing to you when I visited,
Sometimes you sang along
Once you told me the songs I was doing were boring.
And asked me to do songs that rocked.
When I played downstairs in your building,
You were so proud.
Your daughter was playing and singing
With your building neighbors.
They weren’t people you talked to much,
But you told everyone who I was,
My daughter visiting from Memphis.
At some point, I wasn’t able to visit as often.
Then you had to move.
In the new place, I sang to you in your room,
And sometimes outside.
They didn’t have a piano for residents to play,
And no banjo player asking me if I knew
People walking by would sometimes stop and listen
You couldn’t see them
But I could.
They smiled and some sang or danced along
As they passed by.
I still sing to you when I visit.
I Iike to think you can hear me
And your toes are tapping
I like to think that you like the songs.
I like to think that you heard me
When you couldn’t speak.
I like to think you knew who I was,
And were bursting with pride,
That’s my daughter.
I sit in the grass and sing
The air listens.
The breeze blows my hair into my eyes,
I know the strings are out of tune in the sunlight,
But I play anyway,
Not wanting to stop,
Until I play the right song to end on.
I sing to you,
And then put my ukulele back in it’s case,
I tell you that I have to go,
And walk away,
I so badly want to sit back down and play
One more song,
Which will lead to another,
I don’t want to stop
I still sing to you
Every time I sing.