From grandest showroom in all the world, as cellophane wrapped dream, the car drove silently into the twilight hour. Silence, as a coffin lid, loomed over country and city same. Scant and withering sunny beams glinted as garroting wires. Around its blood red sleek form blew wind in icy crowns, wind enough to stretch nightingale song into a strangled cry. And all the while oak leaves fell to its skylight as fingers on piano keys, playing a tune lost on the self-deafening ear.
The flute sang to the stars until their deepest hearts did pulse. In return the heavens did not sing, yet poured as water into the valley and remained there as star-freckled blackest ink. This, my friends, is no legend of old, for I saw it with my own eyes. I felt it with my own hands. I swam in its perfect ambiance, for it was both warm and sweet. As I dived within the flute music returned and oxygen did inflate my lungs. My pilot light burned brighter, swelling my heart anew. The flute I played that day is with me still, a humble yard of silver, a 'cup and string' telephone that divinity chose to answer.
Rain played upon spring blossom as a love song. Streams swelled with heaven’s most happy tears. Earthy hues blushed a deeper brown, singing proud their warmest notes. Water clothed birds made their stand to ring as an acapella choir. Fresher and fresher the aromas cleansed. Time rolled on. Aqua’s orchestra rose to its crescendo. The silver threaded clouds lightened, whitened, dispersing to a lacey sky-net.
Birthed from the silver flute, musical notes skipped into the universe as flattest stones upon mirrored lake top. Yet its radiating waves neither vanished nor diminished in a two dimensional plane. The waves as a sphere did travel, gaining momentum at ethereal speed, gaining light as a willing partner.
At sunrise, heavens maple-hued, the Via Rail train click-clicked on and on. Wheels and steel gravity bonded, its song was a rappity tap tap. Passed blushed mirror lakes of migrating geese, it was industrial hour’s poetry and great onward ballad. Gentle, strong, ever hard at work, assuring it’s destiny one humble turn at a time.
The nascent rays, pulsing through freshly clothed trees, are my heartbeat drum. How these ever-morphing puzzle pieces, playing so lightly, are a playful kind of warmth. Though they begin at my skin, in one breath they arrive in my marrow. And so, amid the bluebells and earned aromas, amid the chattering of birds, the new day is well underway.