This weekend I tagged along with my husband’s band to North Carolina and Tennessee as they played a few shows. I met my hero, got a sunburn, and gained some couch-surfing clarity. I wrote this upon waking up Sunday morning in a roomful of people who I love. It’s called the Nashville Blues because I had to learn these wandering truths: The record always skips on your favorite song. Dog shit abounds when you wear your best dancing boots. Traveling is bittersweet – you make such beautiful connections, and then ache for the people and places you leave behind.
nashville blues
sunday barely rose
on the sleepers
crumpled like faded leaves on
the threshold of morning.
stirring under the gaze of Freya,
six swaying wisps of ether
time is relative
and place is of
no consequence.
without a guiding
light in the zenith,
without hope to regain
sweet anticipation
of meeting your god.
i miss the certainty
on life’s fringes,
when i still believed.
last night’s pretty girls
have gone home.
we stake our fears
on the new day
where strangers slay
unborn truth
by repeating
scenes of
faded worship.
time seems
quite fixed, now,
pinned to the
moment we next meet.
hot in a slate box
twined in a strange cot
not knowing when
true rest will come.
time was always free!
she slipped past our plans
and left me only
with blisters
from dancing
