Maybe that one time I listened to that one album under an oak tree on headphones on a sunny day was the only time I needed to listen to it.
Does it still hold any magic?
Had a dream that one of those obscuro-private-press record labels reissued my Dad’s old demos (that don’t exist in my knowledge.)
Which got me thinking about writing songs from his perspectives.
What would they sound like? What would he have to say?
Blood and Ash
My oldest son
helped me dig.
And into the
earth we placed
His brother’s first
Blood.
Bright red next
to the ruddy clay.
I held onto
The bits of dust
and bone
that were once my
Mother.
Looking like
nothing more
than so much lime.
The beginning
and the end of
life
on our hands
with hopes that it
nourishes the roots
of another new life.
Heron’s First Heron
Twelve days after you were born is when
we saw him.
Flying above the Allegheny
higher than usual.
He appeared young and
maybe like he was enjoying the
cool and grey day.
I was.
