The leaves in the garden have music written in their veins.
She and I can not read it but we love it just the same.
Sometimes we sat together waiting for the day to come.
One by one
the stars were gone,
and the garden played for the sun.
The path flows away from our windows. It trickle tinkles through the trees.
The bamboo violin bends and bows, making music of the breeze,
and the jacaranda keeps the time on a thousand-fingered-baton.
The birds are bells,
and the music swells,
and all day it plays on.
The crooked lone pine in the garden sounds a bugle call
and the ground beneath hears crunch crunch crunch where the tough pine needles fall,
and the music of the evening brings to mind my absent friends.
I hear them sing.
It’s a curious thing.
It’s a music that never ends.
There’s the ghost of a dog on the path there, and he wags and barks for fun.
We look at the children’s laughter where they played beneath the sun.
Crows and cockatoos rend the air with a trumpet voluntary.
And the lass who said
“I thee wed,”
is still listening here with me.
We are sitting now together listening for long night to come,
listening to the ancient music of the stars, the rain, the sun,
but hearing only lonely echoes of the lives that have touched ours.
The seasons pass.
Our lives were passing showers.