Spring whispers to winter in the morning.
In waves I hear stories of women and men,
Ships carry their ideas to shore.
Flotsam and twigs, as they are.
Shared absurdities of hope and withered fruit trees.
The laughter of children playing by the stony brook unaware of their fleeting.
The tears of the widow mending their quilt with leathery hands, scented of cotton.
I make move to raise my voice to join in the song.
But my gratitude and my longing wrestle me down,
Like lovers in the variegated landscape of our heart.
Fields of sorrow grow tended by tears of joy.
Beneath the soil, an infinite array of stars.
Casting off my cloak, I long to sing.
But find the notes are too low to fit through my throat,
The melody too supple to slip past my lips.
Our chorus is too lonesome to loosen my tongue.
So silence remains the steady accompanying beat to this old living song of listening deep.
As the waters run through, and the memories sleep.
The Spring in a Winter night’s dream.