Harvest Ghost

The floorboards above, they mostly creak.

But tonight, a sound, so soft and weak,

filtered up, like dust through a screen,

the quiet intro, a familiar scene.

That slide guitar, a silver drone,

pulled me back to a time we'd known.

The summer heat, a sticky sheen,

and how we spoke, so raw, so mean.

Neil Young's voice, a steady hand,

through all the wreckage of our land.

Now it plays, from some apartment below,

a ghost of feeling, soft and slow.

And I can't listen, can't quite bear

the weight of summer, hanging there.

The melody, a cruel, sweet art,

still finds its way to break my heart.