In a city, future past, and the
streets are cold and clean and flat.
Naught living, none dying, a ghost town, way down the way.
Except.
Except for a lone *** of clay, sitting on the sill, of a cold and sterile building, way up high. And there lies growing a small plant, glowing green and red in the morning sun. Growing, growing,
growing still.

In summer,
I used to run, and
curse the heat. And swim
in the cool waters of the pond.
No more.
For the colder months are coming in,
and winters knocking on the door,
with summer shuffling out the
back. And I welcome old
winter in.

The winds blow, carrying spice and sand and death from the desert, water from the forests, ice from the mountains, fire from the lands of
fire, air from everywhere, and from itself. Stand one day in a high place,
Witt the wind all about you, and none else there but you, and if you listen, you may here secrets whispered to you, on the breath of the wind,
secrets many, and yours among them, for the wind knows all things, and it sees all, forgets nothing.

Grass waving, green on the hillside.
Sunflowers sighing, faces turned to
the light, yearning always. Leaves,
and the grace of the boughs, dancing
in the wind; the trunk is still, standing
tall, as a pillar in the dappled green.
Rain. Rain for the lakes and the trees and
the ponds. Rain for man, and for the flowers,
and for the robin bird, there upon its
perch. Rain and the light of day. A Break in
the clouds. Light shattered, sent in an
arch of shimmering color, and day birds
singing, while light in golden shafts returns,
to grace the patterned forest floor, and to kiss
the waving sunflowers, and the blades of
shining grass.

Us, the people, to me are as
stars, fallen to earth. Each a
small burning point of light,
one among billions, all so close,
and yet so far apart.

Sun shining,
kissing the falling rain,
ripples in a rainbow pond.

Willows,
their hearts are sore,
hair trailing in the clear water.

Sunset,
My heart and I,
alone with our thoughts
and the sighs of the willows.

Heartbreak,
an old sorrow, dulled
by the years and by beauty
and by pain.

Now,
Sharp as shards of
shattered glass, the pain returns
as rollers breaking, over
my life and the span
of years.

And all is grey,
as sand in an ashfall,
as the corpse of a flower, in
the small morning light; as her eyes,
framed in tresses of midnight black,
skin dark and cold as Stygian ice,
as I close them, and kiss her,
once, for memory, twice for
love, a farewell, by the
shadow of the
grave.

And I left her, to be buried, alone in her grave.

And I wept, there, by the pool, in the glade, with the sighs
of the willows a consort to my sorrow, under night and
the light of the stars.

Notes....

Floating in a golden sea of sound....

Silver is the rain and the sighing of the flutes....

Drums for the thunder.

Trumpets sounding, with horns colliding, furious their clashing;

Lightning, hurled from the heavens.

So for music, and the soundings of the storm.