the sun comes up then goes down
we traffic in relations, goods, dreams, God, songs and lyrics
we tell stories
we are stories
my mechanic in Oxford should be a writer,
he never tells me anything without it becoming a story..
these days keep coming and going,
and story is what we have at the end of it all..
songs, poems, paintings, Paraclete, lovers, children, houses, barns, horses, dogs, cats...
I feel a new wind blowing..
new fires old stories..
Tradition finding its way home..
laughing with Angels..
a hard rain is going to keep on falling over me..
When we walk..
the red clay dirt of Mississippi in my book bag..
carry a little with me wherever I go..
none of us know much other than our own individual soil,
and even it is rich with mystery.
wkm
Nashville
No comments:
Post a Comment