Poetic flakes and falling leaves
words to dust or mud.
Equal parts light and confusion.
Written read remembered forgotten.
Real like love, hate and fear.
We tell ourselves and others
the way it is. But maybe not.
Then this blues woman
twisted at the mike
surrounded by taxidermy
and beat, squeezing body and soul
into every sacred breath.
Semi-dark in the Whitetail Tavern
50/50 draw on a Friday night.
Far too pure for words like these.