In The Mirror
Everything flows through me these days but nothing is lost,
not a drop of wine, nor any excuses
Across the wooden table, she speaks as if she knew the meaning of my name,
pouring herself like a sun-blistering storm on a thirsty riverbed
"You ask me to bear this, Roxy", I say, "to remember the scent of apples
and the green heart of the poplar trees growing in endless rows"
I try to lose myself in a gaucho’s ballad letting the guitar soften time in my bones,
but she spills another river of wine in my glass shaking her head with a coy smile at my refusal
Ah! The delight one feels when a voice it knows is near...or so I imagined
If I leave for a moment, I wonder if she would somehow... disappear
But then, reality returns to remind me my glass is only half drunk,
and in an instant come to know..."how you pour, Roxy...how you pour"
...just bein' Bluesy