Every symphony starts with silence.
Then, with a faint tap, a drop of the dew, a heartbeat—
Daffodil murmurs speckle the spring breeze,
carried by papaya sunsets and falsetto bees
through the clarion call of summer with the
sweltering heat and bass bellows of long mornings
and short evenings within nature’s living sound.
Scarcely a blink has passed before the musicians
rearrange themselves for the spectacular scarlet
melody of falling leaves that flutter and trill
like birds and like flutes over the bubbling of streams.
Then moonlight-caressed whispers take the stage
as the ice queen bounds and leaps with the
uniqueness of snowflakes in her hands; she does not sing
of human things and mortality, her night-kissed fur face
stretches the seven seas and ends in heaven,
where the snow is warm to the touch.
And thus progresses the first movement
of the greatest symphony known to man
and, by God, the show is free.