Songs

 

Songs

 

It was just past his fortieth year

When he heard the first of them.

“The wind”, he thought,

But knew that was the wrong return,

For no breeze requires sunlight,

And this chorale was glad of it.

Summer it was then,

And the whispering tune

Sang in joy of sun,

And rain.

Having first caught their meaning,

He could not unhear them,

And would not,

Even if able.

For those songs were permeate,

Resonating in his flesh,

Sinking into bone.

He came to know at last,

Treesong and flowersong,

And the gladness of growing things

To be alive.

Listening further,

Or perhaps slower,

The mountains also crooned,

Sonorous strains deep with weight,

And the tales of long eons versed.

After a time he could pick out the wind ballad;

Airs that spoke of change,

And long journeys over sea and stone.

Then at last he heard Her,

Infinite mother to us all,

And she chanted of rest and long dreams,

And he was comforted,

And at length lay down upon her,

And she covered him,

And he slept,

And added his voice to her song.

He sings today,

Though he dreams deeply,

And ever shall.

So will we all.

Listen…

 

Cliff Lake 12/24/2023

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023