Golden fingers

to create oceans of time
to dive into,
for the river
flows relentlessly
singing his merry song,
and the cicadas
bend their chord
to the shaky warm wind's waltz,
his only companion
still and shmoozing,
pleased them too
to assist
such vibrant song.
A crowd of reeds
and tamarisks
takes a seat,
down to the valley floor
the gloss of a turtledove
carrying the scent of a dawn.
On the slipstream of nothingness
there's a bird,
he tolls
as if there could be
a spot of light
tempered
in the thunder of misery.

He sings
eternally