He sits on his front porch,
Strumming his old-fashioned guitar.
Making up tunes as he goes.
Smiling, listening to his music
As the southern wind blows.
It's around 8 pm,
The night sky's a gem.
The stars tell us their stories.
The night time song birds
Gives his music the glories.
Glorious and wondrous,
The soft Georgian
Breeze hits his handsome face.
A soft mist of rain expresses to him grace.
His native Athenian blood
Lets his music flow through his veins.
It's natural and nothing is held in, held back.
Nothing is allowed to be restrained.
His music is his music.
The strums from his guitar
Reaches out to each and every star.
It brings this small city
An intensity
That music from his heart can only explain.
So he just sits and strums
As it starts to pour down Athenian rain.
May 28, 2010
