’51 Gibson J-45

I’m a gardener, you’re the volunteer who vines by the row of heirloom Better Boys, you hide near the hollyhocks along the splintered wood fence, dry in the sunlight.     

I’m a mapmaker, your cheeks are hilltops, your tears flow like trout streams, they descend contours and join the rivers’ pilgrimage to the Gulf.

I’m a fiddler, you’re the drone that waltzes on the ridge where squirrels bark and owls echo. 

You are the full moon I cannot see as the rain tears my eyes.

You’re the side yard that wants to be mowed, and I just want to lay in your dampness, and watch the mower rust into Sunday.

You are the guitar I saw at the auction, your spruce swells as the dealer takes you  to fondle your tobacco sunburst.  

About orangeacorn

We are, I believe, and everything is, in perpetual unfolding/enfolding/evolving. By surface appearances, we're in turmoil and fearfullness, but in fact our existence is on the edge of a new way, beyond the US versus THEM we have grown with. I encourage you to join me over coffee or tea in face-to-face encounters. I call this exercise, "CAFFEINE COMMUNION: Encounters with Paradigm Pioneers." I'm a Columbus, Ohio husband, father and citizen. I practice string band sounds from the ridges of Pocahontas County, West Virginia, the vortex of the ancient drone.
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