Tuesday, August 17, 2004

If you listen,
you can hear it.
The wind hums
the tune,
the rain pounds the rhythm.
Leaves on the ground crackle
the lyrics: sometimes softly
but mostly harshly and unintelligibly.
When their voices die
away, the silence
is mingled with a hushed
chorus of ice
and snow
tumbling onto bare
The words they sing
are unforgiving
and harsh,
mirroring the grey
and empty
As the sun emerges,
a new voice is heard:
a high, eager
and quivering
voice rings out
amidst the harshness,
making a rollcall
for the rest of the choir.
There is rustling
in the trees and bushes,
as if they were an orchestra
tuning their instruments.
The melody grows
as the warm
wind picks up the tune
and plays it through the grass.
The leaves dance in time
until they join
again in the song
of change.

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