It is the end of a cycle.
Friday morning I passed Old Man Taylor sitting on his front porch
Waiting for his children to drive him to Florida
For good.
Sitting with his head in his hands
House all bare
Full of memories and empty spaces.
I was on my way to Hart Farm
Hart Farm, too, was full, and empty
Waiting to say goodbye to us,
As we gathered one last time.
My heart was most full in the mornings
People in small knots,
Some curled over their guitars like nursing mothers
Music floated up free,
My heart was most full in the mornings
People in small knots,
Some curled over their guitars like nursing mothers
Music floated up free,
Casually in the air like feathers
Frisbees wafting slowly through the notes
Folks still sleepy in blankets by the fire
I yearned hard, full to break
Under apple blossom and cloud laden sky
We embraced, and ate with friends
Our communion reasserted
One last time.
Now I am full, and empty.
Washed by rain
Caressed by smoke
Rinsed in the energy of a hundred people
I sit alone at my desk after the fact
Like Old Man Taylor head in hands
Baptized and silent
Not wanting to break the spell
Frisbees wafting slowly through the notes
Folks still sleepy in blankets by the fire
I yearned hard, full to break
Under apple blossom and cloud laden sky
We embraced, and ate with friends
Our communion reasserted
One last time.
Now I am full, and empty.
Washed by rain
Caressed by smoke
Rinsed in the energy of a hundred people
I sit alone at my desk after the fact
Like Old Man Taylor head in hands
Baptized and silent
Not wanting to break the spell
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