An aging master performs meloncoly chords,
painting me a summer forest, just before sunset. Light beams bring in the underlying melodies. The shadows dance in D Minor.
The moist earth, blanketed with twigs and
orphaned leaves, speak in operatic voices. The wind running through the branches
of old maples, sing an etude speckled
with the sanguine voices of ancient roots.
My hands, soiled in rain soaked mud,
reach for the music captured among
the fauna and overgrowth. I want
to catch melodies in dew laden
spiderwebs, and watch as new
notes are woven and performed
by the tiny orchestra.
All these tiny movements and voices,
chiming to create a glorious
cacaphony of delightful harmony. The birds have nothing on this symphony,
and seem obvious in their solo
performances, straining for glory.
Give me the peat moss and snails,
the mice and scuttling creatures. Here
is where the designs of Heaven
are held, and where I want to rest,
when the Music in this life, finally ends.
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