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The evening is subtle and the songs are soft,
birdsong and windsong, and thoughts are songs too,
the lines of a poem are songs, silent music
you hear in your heart and your breathing,
a melody behind your eyes only you know,
quiet notes on a scale meant only for you,
birds on the wires that no one else sees
the same way you do, for the score is your life
and your being, and that's the intent, words
strung together meaning more than their meaning,
for we each are our own aberration
blown this way and that by our times
like parallel contrails in sunset,
and what is more lovely and fine?
