Before I knew I could talk,
I listened.
Hidden dialects, lost phrases, and angry letters
Soiled, tarnished, unbreathing.
Before I knew my voice,
I spoke.
Proofs, postulates and dead end theories
Railing against nature afraid the flowers would be right.
Echoes of winter yielding to the
Tendrils of an ever invading Spring
Which invarialbly lead back to
Summer’s silent hills, cast in shades of grey,
Shades of the setting sun.
In fabulous gradients,
fading from view
as a new age has not yet begun.
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