Loudly, I hear them above the rest.
Through the windows of slender sand, which rests in another form, songs of primavera bounce around my head.
I never knew their range or talents of projection; so small and fragile are not the melodies of the small and fragile.

This moment of recognition moves me to adjust that which separates her song and I; to hear more clearly that which I forgot,
truth and beauty, peace and presence.
I feel the thaw of spring which melts so sweetly into the air, sagging with weight as it tenderly brushes the backside of my neck.

These things in successsion cause more than hesitation, they cause more than saintly admiration. My eyes become fixed upon something in the middle distance to avoid and restrict additional visual stimuli; to allow this focused moment a place to stay.
to sit in appreciation of the fresh-chilled air and music of our returning spring that sings in natural melodies for we.

it's only three feet and two inches from falling,
crashing into a million bleeding pieces,
holding momentary glimmers of tungsten
and shimmers of electric wealth.

it lay there, placed just hours ago,
maybe by the hands of a mind
with these thoughts contained therein.

or maybe it lay placed by the hands
of a mind that could not restrain itself from
flying away with that fluttering cardinal, outside
the window, bouncing from tree to tree.

with either if-so, omnipresent is the hand
and the crystal that lay still, just on the edge,
three feet from whole and no longer still.

the echo i chase sounds from the siren which bends my ear.
summer clouds in springtime plume while soft silt bunches on the riverbed.
the shadow in the mirror looks like what i once knew but
from around the bend and above the break,
i hear her without distance.
like a hornets kiss on the back of my neck,
throbbing like a geysers sulfur surface,
welted like a rolling hillside,
i cannot ignore such persistence.
beauty and the burden knowing;

knowing she is a burden.
knowing she will change,
become something i've not known for others,
and unfold her beauty
in ways i'll not be blessed to know.

she remains that echo of thunder deep in the ravine,
she remains the shadows in the mirror i cannot shine upon.

if i were a tree in winter
my bark would praise
the bright light and warmth of sunshine
and scold the treacherous and bitter wind

but my roots would shout from down below
beneath the blue and white earth,

"we are safe within the dirt
where our source of being remains;
drinking, growing, absorbing more of
what provides us for this life"

While gazing wintery white
The only thought that came to me was,
"It's summer in Argentina,
but I don't speak Spanish"

just as a painted landscape, dimension and depth disappear
before my eyes, and like the slide of turpentine,
movement slowly ceases 'till the fragrant bead dissolves
into the tightly woven weaves. visible no more,
the aroma remains profound, as though there shall be no end.

i can't seem to find the mark where preservation placed its hold,
a naive attempt at keeping age so young.
a barrier between the world of quickly passing glances
with ever changing tastes, and eyes of failing foresight
which cannot find their pace.

composed of sacred balance, aesthetics defined
by what we can not know, sable and squirrel,
or some other mammalian hair, delicately define the strokes
that hold impossibly stable forms. they remain nothing more
than the anticipation of change.

i hold dearly their ideals set before me.  
worlds not yet conceived, sonnets of they eye.
immaculate conception of material, geographies of a mind;
i know to kneel and weep. i know their end is near,
while framed and draped in hammered sheets of gold.

unfurling cracks appear, sounding cries for renewed youth.
howling dearly to hide their hidden truths.
i listen within earshot, the call of dying lies
and feel no remorse. no guilt. no sympathy. their backgrounds protrude abruptly, like mountains from the sea.

although, their time is not like mountains or
the falling and rising seas. they remain only for our pleasure
and contemplation, when money and interest build into cacophony. confusing onlookers to believe a misplaced value, not an artists intention, to become only what man makes their purpose.