Henry’s Porch

The twilight crickets find the rhythm, fill
the evening air with humming beats to back
up Henry’s honey strums on his guitar.
A melody of mountain men and born

agains that dissipates into the night
air, curling down the concrete steps to fall
on bald grass patches, errant weeds, no ears 
for miles but his own to hear his voice,

a warbling ode to Hank Sr., a song
for country boys who pick up picks instead
of pipes. Between two calloused fingers pinched,
his pick, a tortoise-shell connection to

some warm-toned magic played for corners of
a lonely valley, feeding Nashville dreams
that turn a crumbling porch into a light-
soaked stage, an empty field into his fans

swaying like blades of grass in choral wind.