There is a whisper on the wind, and
a thousand dancing fairies touch the sky.
For every breathe there is color, and
for every color there is life.
In the midst of the clearing in the wood,
there is music playing in the air—
a tap-dance of iris petals and satin leaves;
a ballad between the ripples on the pond, and
the silence of the grasses.
The song is not like thunder, not like rain—in that,
it does not beat to the rhythm of the earth,
does not pulse to the mechanical whirr of a motion.
And the lyrics are clear but enmeshed with the nature of things;
hesitant and halting, present and faltering.
And the notes follow a path of its own,
a sonnet of its making.
It is a poem in the way the current speaks,
the way the leaves rustle here and there,
the way the land moves.
It is a poem with every line a new beginning,
but for this poem, there are no words.
