SUMMER MARCHES IN
(Movement no. 1)

It comes crashing down
like doom.
A martial fanfare
begins a long conversation
questioning fate,
arguing for the human condition,
and for death's open invitation,
which we dare not deny.

WHAT THE MEADOW FLOWERS TELL ME
(Movement no. 2)

Their blooming voices
are oboes and lush violins.
The sun is surely brassy bright
in the sky above.
Radiant alpine flowers
and woodwinds
from deep within their burrows
make the case
for a music well tended
and serenely fed
by sweet springs emerging from the depths
here below.

WHAT THE CREATURES OF THE FOREST TELL ME
(Movement no. 3)

The life force
tends to run amok.
Yet things do not fall apart,
the center still holds.

And though it is mundane -
pedestrian, at times -
we cannot deny the joy in this life,
nor do we wish to.

But know, traveler,
that submerged in every caldron of joy
is a small *** of darkness.
And it will find you
or you will find it -
not only because it is fated,
but for the sake of your sanity.

WHAT MAN TELLS ME
(Movement no. 4)

Here darkness sings.
Again the plucked string.
O Mensch!
You tell the tale!
You take this story
back to the mountain.

A woeful tale you bring,
but it is gilded with joy.

A chorus exalts your condition.
Deep is its grief,
but joy is deeper still.

WHAT THE ANGELS TELL ME
(Movement no. 5)

Bimm Bamm
Bimm Bamm
the children's choir
sweetly intones.
And what, pray tell,
do Angels have to say to us?

I've heard about love
I've heard about emptiness
I've heard about absence
without presence,
about nothingness and the void.

But I have never heard such singing!

WHAT LOVE TELLS ME
(Movement no. 6)

Sweet the air we breathe.
Pleasant the sights before us.
Words are stilled,
anxious thoughts banished.

There is nothing on Earth
or in Heaven
that disputes this sweet resolution
all the parts made whole
Nothing that could possibly
speak against it
(though French Horns will have
their interests heard).

But here it is.
The end.

O Mensch
come to your last and best
resting place.

Also sprach Gustav Mahler.

In the beginning
crows were
as white as snow.
No.
Whiter than that.
Liquid silver.

But in these times
we see Crow as black,
though you will observe
Crow is silver in the sun
(which proves my point).

And there he is
at the very top of
that hemlock tree.

Surveys his rude world
and sees below
one whose ancestors
were here even before
tricks and tricksters.

Even before crows.

Coyote
Old Man
sly one
always ready with a joke
or a riddle

They say he spun the Milky Way
with his deceit
told the Earth's first lie

And as for riddles:
answer at your peril
or carry him
like a whispering sack
upon your back
until the end.