A symphony of calls high above
Voices without a form
No body, just sound,
as if it’s the trees themselves.
There is no recitative
There is no intermission
This music has no beginning, no end.
It’s the music of the forest
It started with the first sprout
It will until the fall of the final stoic pillar
Once all the musician have left
And have found a new concert hall
Caught in the web.
What was promised to bring life-
now imprisoned by a dealer of death.
The flower so hopeful to send off her young with the breeze
To flutter and flow amongst the trees
All hope crushed in the invisible noose
To dangle aimlessly
The scream of a child
The screech of chipmunk
The chipmunk does not know of play
The child knows naught of survival
Hundreds of yards and millions of years separation
Yet originating from the same
Is the child blessed or cursed
Is the chipmunk blessed or cursed
One free in the forest
One confined to a schoolyard
spring is upon us, it has sprung
to pack away winter, the time has come.
the flowers are blooming the grass is turning green
birds chirp around us, wishing to be seen.
the smell is fresh, the breeze is cool
food on the grill makes us drool.
a heap of sunshine, no sign of gray
it really can brighten up our day.
They laugh and mock
Ideas being tossed around
Everybody wants to talk
And give their voices a sound
They cannot settle
They cannot agree
They support their own
And scoff at me
The options soon dwindle
They start to decide
Jokes add to the trouble
Like fire with kindle
That could work.
They sit and bicker
Pumping out posts
To produce the most
Off track soon they will be
Pausing their work to harass me
Trying to observe
They talk so quick
The moment I preserve
In the words I script
The discussion continues
The work is forgotten
As the time runs out
the process remains
Never stop thinking
Ideas pulling on the reigns