mow

In the morning sometimes I remember the music-created from sheer vibration of soul, from pure need to sing, an urge as powerful as any elemental need. 

Early on the mystery was great, each chord a new idea, each line a new paradigm. 

Repetition a mantra, over and over again until something shone beneath the outer layer-something. 

Maybe nothing. 

Now- coffee in the rain as the dogs beg to come in. 

Snippets of the radio world swirl round and round in a cacophony of marketing jingles and love songs written before the creation of antidepressants. 

There are noises there? 

There are unsaid songs? 

If the guitar would stay in tune. 

If it didn't sound weird. 

If if if. 

If I had more coffee and it wasn't raining I'd mow the yard. 

Sure needs it.