Hazy summer dreams of Independence Day, Sitting in a field and an alcove of trees Watching fireflies and fireworks With nothing but a peace pipe and the pleasure Of each other's company.
Four in the morning blues Writing music inspired by The light reflecting off her box wine, Bird feathers and new frontiers. Four in the morning band practice Where the kitchen was filled with Jaw harps and nose flutes and ukuleles. She hated the fact that the string bassist Parked right in front of the fridge.
Sun-drenched days of exploring And picking mulberries from the Fallen tree at the creek. They tried to make pen ink from it, Once.
Dreams of open mic nights with Milkshake stouts and summer sweat But never once complaining Because the air felt so electric And full with the sound of kindred souls. Place closed down since then, But she won't forget the time she was Asked to stay on stage when her set was done.
Maybe they're all romanticized, but These memories stick like push pins In her mind, in her heart. There was something more authentic About it all - All those days of watching Fireworks and fireflies. Something real, and true. Something changed, shifted in the universe.