February Morning

A February morning, 

a mystical painting almost.

The fog thinning to the rays of sun,

she walked the streets 

of a revitalized downtown;

old buildings given life again.

Her ear caught the sound of 

the prettiest guitar,

a melodic classical sound

spurring her interest; 

she meandered to the 

mesmerizing melody

walking to the second floor,

her fingers dragging 

along 200 year old bricks

following the andante tones;

she treaded lightly

the hallway carrying soft

guitar chords.

The door half open 

she pushed to a creak;

the windows open, 

smooth playing riding

the fog and sunlight.

A man playing all alone

in the corner of the room,

in tee shirt and jeans 

and ass-kickin boots,

playing a classical guitar

on a February morning