As he softly
lays down his honed voice,
In grooves that
give him room to improvise,
Tenor or bass,
Turning so
pretty like a young man holding a looking glass.
Whisper,
mumble, fly the kite of his voice
With the
signature drawl, growl and sage lullaby.
When he raises
the volume, it feels like he’s
Letting us in
on a secret.
Sincere and
still full of surprises,
What is old is
very new again.
Black rider
became a night rider.
Like getting a
letter from an old friend.
A man who knows
even his tumbles are adorable.
Love me
lightly, let the wind blow high …
I forgot that
he can laugh and sing at the same time.
Midnight’s
broken tongue … his phrases just float into my mind
From a
kaleidoscope of memory.
Harmonica like
a hug.
Or a meal.
Medicine for my
blues.
***
I wrote this while listening to my first Bob Dylan concert a few weeks ago. Though he'd been a part of my life since 1964, I had never seen him in person. It was a memorable experience.
