Colored and fallen
children of chance layer
soul upon soul
sheathed by loss and triumph
in the cycle of fire
in the season of return.

 

Humus fair and unwatered
pile the ones torn
by weather
by careless travelers
by the worming virus
to carpet the way.

 

What no violin can save
the earth toils, tends to
as the premiere gardener
we all mimic and hope
to recreate: the emotion
in color and music.

 

Young or old, all
are in the chance
some not wanting
others ever wishing
each a played key
unwound to tears in the eventual.