Barrelhouse Grapevine Lullaby

More about Barrelhouse Grapevine Lullaby

The vines been whispering all afternoon,
green fingers crawling up the clapboard sky,
and the air smells like old wine and wet earth promises.

He’s got a guitar carved like a church pew confession,
roses burned into the wood by a man
who probably owed somebody money.
Every chord he pulls out sounds like it’s been
sleeping in a boot by the stove.

Black hat low, beard full of yesterday’s dust,
he plays like he’s tuning the weather.
Like if he gets the key right,
the sun might lean closer
and the barrels will start humming harmony.

She’s perched on that oak drum of a future,
banjo resting against her hip
like it’s waiting for a train that never quite arrives.
Dress the color of dried honey and porch light.
Eyes set somewhere past the fence line,
where the dirt road bends into rumor.

The other one—
she’s got a broom handle grip
like she could sweep the whole county
into a pile and set it smoldering.
Ruffles at her shoulders flutter
like pigeons startled by a bottle breaking.
She ain’t leaning on that stick—
she’s measuring something.
Distance.
Or patience.

The grapes hang heavy,
purple as a bruise you don’t explain.
Leaves big as Sunday hats.
A house behind them breathing quiet,
wood siding holding onto stories
like knots in a throat.

He plays a line that tastes like copper and rainwater.
Something about freight trains
that don’t stop for saints.
Something about love
that shows up barefoot
and leaves with your good coat.

The banjo finally joins him—
thin silver notes skipping like stones
across a slow brown river.
And the broomstick girl taps time
against the barrel,
hollow thump like a heartbeat in a cellar.

Nobody’s smiling much.
Not because they’re sad.
Because they know.

Wine takes its time.
Songs do too.
You can’t rush a grape
and you can’t hurry a heartbreak.

The evening leans in.
The sky turns the color of spilled whiskey.
And the vines,
they keep crawling.