Life lives lovely on the leaves
She lingers on their branches,
but does not know our dreams.
The mystery of a raindrop
beguiles not mysteries of the sand,
though one is dry against the sea,
while the other only wets the hand
There is music on the limbs
heaven lines blue the staff
born opposite to earth.
autumnal leaves sing red
the wind in crimson shades of death
a wrath yet true
of Summer's breath
but their green song wanders breezes too
o'er the shaded path
As the needled pines suffer no season's drop
verdant pines' poetry never stops
speaking moot of old or new
Flying divinity cloaked in feathers
through her tuneful chant
whether on tree or bush;
Birds eschews the human rant
echoing not of birch or oak
but instead of nests and wings and air
But her music
of the rains that soak
is not for us to wax poetic notes;
because to be aware
we must share words
to know the truth
of what she sings.
Andrei knows the notes, and shares them so the world will know their truth.
Others only play the notes with a blind eye to the mind that birthed them.