My early-twenties self once heard a string
of nylon plucked in early morning air—
piquing his heart like citrus rays that zing
their tart glow at a blue night laissez-faire.
Good grief! what a present, and what a pair
we make! My forty-something self, so far
along the arc of sight, is quite aware
of where the ripening dome meets earth. I mar
his sleep as I tune my midlife crisis guitar.

Poet’s Note:

Image of Lake Huron, viewed from Michigan just before sunrise, by Jake Christensen.