The flutes of those
who live
with,
not just in,
nature,
mimic windsong.
Even accidental noise
blown by untrained lips
echoes the haunting, ethereal
whistle of wind
through limbs and grass, crops and structures.
“Windsong: Grand Opera,” “Full-ness of Time” and “Shadow Play”
The first strains of the overture
Intrudes on the calm of normalcy.
Several measures of gentle breeze
Slowly crescendo into true wind.
The key and rhythm suddenly change,
Then revert to the original.
“There Are No Words,” “Que Será – Mother’s Stare” and “Peace”
“There are no words…” with tragedy
Or times absurd or ends unknown
Is tragic in its own accord
For words may be all that we own
“Attic,” “Thalia and Melpomene” and “And So We Sleep”
Three chains:
The first hanging in the hall
Just within reach, but
High enough not to disturb traffic through the short hallway
“Just Do It,” “Warning” and “Life Dunes”
No matter what the it
it often starts small, unannounced
undetected or unappreciated
It starts to grow or change in
some way, pushed or pulled by us
or self-induced
“Long Ago, Friday Night in Texas,” “A Train at Night,” and “Joy”
Light explodes from darkening skies.
Not Sun,
Yet, light unleashing elemental forces.
The fragrance of recently mown grass
As would be remembered by a thoroughbred
Not so long ago a colt
Building muscle and endurance
Running like the wind through the grass just because
You were meant to run like the wind when you are a colt.