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Winter night, the guitar player helps me remember
Meditation on creativity, light + (r)evolution, 12.19.24
St. Paul winter evening, lights shimmering along streets,
summoning the season, moon misting its cool gleam
behind drifting clouds —
we sit at the tiled bar, sipping decaf coffees,
slab of chocolate cake between us.
Saturday nights feel easy here, as if they understand
what our ancient brains need and miss
(without language to name the missing, only bodies to notice it):
low close murmur of human voices, plink of silverware on plates,
swish of coats passing by, steady swoosh of breadboards
retrieving flatbread pizzas from ovens — and over everything,
an umbrella of light, the lone musician in the corner
strumming his warm-honey guitar.
White hair and loose white shirt, he holds that instrument
as though it is a living creature he adores,
performs without watching himself,
the music itself a winding path of self-forgetting,
making himself only a vessel of pure presence.
Spanish, flamenco, jazz, some old familiars — diners sing along
to The Girl From Ipanema, and…
