nevering

taping the earth

the composer
makes live calculations
taping the earth
for its beauty

the perimeters of leaves
armfuls of the golden brittle leaf of sunlight

he records the sound
of the earth slowly falling

faced with a distant glancing eye
of winter

the trees sing their hollow songs
so merrily
as if they could fly high away

and the composer he knows
so he pushes his microphone into the earth
and he tries to listen into God

as if he might
find a sound of love
and God calling him in each
flicker of leaf

scratch-scratch
mr composer
sing us a tune
in white noise, in crimson
in a great bonfire of leaves
and became again

posted by Cathy @ 6:51 AM