Sunday, I wake up to the sleepy sultry strum 
of an unlearned untuned guitar
and I'll smile at that lovely languid lilt you do
once you hit that sweet spot,
a silvery sound knotted in cedar wood.

You learn to match its pitch in time
to mirror your raspy reticent hum 
as your fingers pluck at dusty bronze 
and you muse about pretty things.

The water droplets cling like smoke to hair
onto the speckled glass of a cracked ivied pane
so we can breathe in April’s prodigious petrichor 
while you go on singing your siren song.

This is your morning melody on a Martin
like Bobby D on Macdougal Street,
back in the Hootenanny days
when your music was your legacy
and your lyrics flowed like poems do.