Something small, light, entertaining (hopefully), and a little warming on a damp night (well it is here).
130 feet closer to the sky
What a day. Two wayfarers in a tallhouse. Like a giant red and white picket to the vastness of the sky’s sea. Well we’re sitting. Halfway down here, in the second kitchen. Drinking coffee and tea, with a yarn. When you say, here have a listen. As you pick up that ole saltwater, weathered guitar. Finger picking a tune fresh on the breeze. While you raise up a voice, with a challenge. What words do you think might match with these? The notes they snap a little rise. I was just thinking. Being way out here between the blues. About, 130 feet closer to the sky. Lets scale these spiral stairs some more. Bringing our coffee and tea along for the ride. Till we find that old circular balcony, with a sun fallen low in the western sky. Where the dusk tinted salt spray, fall like amber jewels in a cooling new evening air. Do you still need a few words to place their arm around those mellow notes? Sure, any time you’re up for it. So here we are, drifting in the days way out here above the rocks. Where the sand and surf, it rambles for miles to a distant South. All I can hear in the wind and sea, every note of your voice. As it plays out life, within a soft whispers blast, Up upon an ancient foundation, near the shelter of a man made tree. To the forest orchestra, bears the woodwind, songs of a great heart. The sea, a dreamy percussionist, as the winds conduct the score. But for me. It’s you and that old weathered guitar. Your dancing voice, conversations with the strings. So for now the sun has gone, lets wait for awhile on the stars, before we find again, The warmth of the kitchen..