On a Porch in Paradise

In memory of John Prine

Flower Dedication to John Prine by Mark Tulin

I listened to John Prine
the other day
and could hear the sound
of his heartbeat
singing.

It was a sad lyric,
coming from a simple man
whose voice echoed in truth
with a touch of irony
that made you cry.

He sang in a mid-western
drawl, slow and easy,
but waltzing steady
with a quirky rhythm
and a satirical rhyme.

His gravelly voice
spread across
his humble universe
like a worn, comfortable blanket
covering a midnight chill.

He tweaked my mood
and sharpened my soul
with each bend of his jaw
and every yarn he spun
spoke directly to me.

I could see him writing songs
on his porch in paradise,
a beer by his side,
his gentle fingers
strumming
his last goodbye.