Music IS Consciousness

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

in birth;

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

jokes

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

not antidotes

to know the truth

of what she sings.

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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.