Poetry

It was lightly snowing large, irregular flakes,

but between the drifting flakes a cold rain

pattered on the almost-green grass

as sunshine glanced to the side

of a dark, blue, passing cloud.

Wind huffed mightily

as I wanted to say something

startling or exciting, yet the wind

held the stage as I offered outstretched

my empty palms

to pay homage to the seasonal mix.

Anticipation of spring

can be marvelously maddening,

and a quick glance about the disordered garden

conjures up images of hard work,

.

Digging remains more satisfying

than the idle frustrations of winter.

Even a four-year-old yearns to build,

with fertile imagination,

with hands on wood or stone.

If music be the alphabet of love,

play on through the hours and days of life,

enriching each moment with a wisdom

unspoken in all the earth’s sacred writ

and prized by the world’s varied religions

under red-setting skies around the globe.

For if music falls on our ears as we walk,

the earth itself would be free of hatred

and people would greet each other freely

with open embrace, hearty handshakes,

and words of such enthusiastic joy

that war would be banished and we would love

each other and the earth we tread upon.

We would speak the language of dawn’s bright song.