We’ve been told the ancient bard,
Could hear the “music of the spheres.”
We have since seen harmony on high,
Tho astral strains are never heard.
We do hear the music of “our” sphere,
Where virtuosos perform in nature’s realm.
One has but to will to hear.
The splash of raindrops on trembling leaves,
And whistled wind-song thru dark reeds,
The high-pitched scratch of cricket limbs,
The basso profundo of bullfrog croaks,
And redundant “coo” of mourning doves,
The baby summoning her mom,
The wolf intoning his baritone aria,
The countless chirps of little birds,
The gleeful chatter of sportive chipmunks,
The staccato sound of barking dogs,
The brassy honks of flyover geese,
The lake’s soft slosh on muddy banks.
One can, in truth, faintly hear,
If he listens, most meditatively,
The upward thrust of perennial plants,
The final melt of tardy snow,
Spring, is that really you?
Have you just returned?
Welcome, do come in, Spring, my love.
Bienvenue!
-p.
Leonard N, Shapiro, 12/13/25, Kingston, N.Y.
plinyblogdotcom 