Before music was a poem—
Writ in an empty black book
And then a guitar played me,
The world was rung in stars,
Simple and real as spun light
On a staff of gold in the dark.

And word becoming structure,
Branched out into leaving sky,
The notes of the minded heart                              
Opened in modulation of keys
And time was rooted in beats,
The song tapping in our dream.

After— music was a poem,
Old as a birth from the lamb
And memories calling forth,
From landed dreams awoke,
Everything before led me on,
This journey into bright morn.