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The Orchestra

Writer: t.noblet.noble

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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Trish Noble

Writer, Artist, Dreamer.

I design, write, and generally have fun

experimenting and creating things.

Even if I suck at it.

I am a Jungian enthusiast and avid dreamer.

I have four cats.  They all think I'm crazy.

© Trisha Noble - all rights reserved.

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