The porch swing creaks
slowly back and forth
as you strum
a drifting melody
into the evening air.
You sip hot tea,
barefooted,
speaking little,
watching willows
play upon
the trees
as you play
upon the wind
your mandolin.
Breezes
touch your hair,
gliding softly
like a sail,
while your fingers
carve a trail
to the melancholy moon,
and your bright eyes
flicker to the moisture
in the teacup
by your side,
where vapors hover gently
to the hint of cinnamon,
arise to fill your senses
as you play your mandolin.
A fragile teardrop shines
within the corner
of one eye,
then tumbles
to your lap
where it melts
into your jeans,
and the porch swing
slowly creaks
as your laughter
peals forth
from a dandelion grin.
And you’re content once more
to sit and play
your mandolin.