The Folks in Maplewood
Last night I discovered a secret hippy enclave. At 39 I was the youngest one there, surrounded by guitars, fiddles, banjos and two stand up basses.
We sat around in a circle, our campfire a box of Heineken, digging up the past and sifting it though our strings.
We sang songs about whiskey, wine and reefer. We remembered the sting of lost loves and the angst of desire.
When it was my turn, I taught them a song about Death. My voice became newly public and I sang without fear, without judgement and without tune.
I found the secret history of America, sung through the words of her nearly forgotten rebel poets, and was asked back to contribute to the tapestry, that work in progress which reminds us of who we are.