07/08/2026
Conversations with Solomon
The Meadowlark porch is quiet tonight,
Where the music would drift through the cool mountain air,
And we’d sit by the bar in the fading of light,
Two minds finding common ground waiting right there.
For he carried the hills in the pulse of his veins,
With an artist’s deep soul and a sharp, worldly mind,
A craftsman of shine from the old secret strains,
But a thinker of thoughts that were harder to find.
We talked of the obstacles, history, and light,
Of the push of the cities, the pull of the peaks,
A rare kind of understanding, easy and right—
The kind of connection a fellow thinker seeks.
I carried the thought, though I’d long moved away,
That we’d sit down again just to pick up the thread,
To pass back the bottle, have so much to say,
And walk the same trails where the spirit had led.
But the mountain has shifted; the shadows grow long,
And the heaviest grief is the silence that trends,
When a beautiful life is cut short like a song,
And a grand conversation just ends ... mid-sentence.
RIP Sutton
