Who Listens to Flowers?
They grow like little comets,
blazing through the blackened soil,
singing long-forgotten songs -
songs of death's demise,
of life's bright distillation
lighting the very core of time.
But who has ears to hear?
Who sits among the stalks
listening to the creak of growth,
the crystallization of each new cell,
that life conquers all?
They stream into our eyes
pouring ambrosial essence,
pure and natural passion.
They nurse the soul
of this belaboured age,
singing a silent song -
they sweep the sky's wide towers
heaving lakes with ease into the blue,
filling children's eyes with stars,
and breathing joy's pearled kiss
into each welcoming ear.
Who listens to flowers?
Flowers listen to flowers,
as do trees, laughing clouds,
rivers, lakes, and all
the glowing world unseen
within poet's hearts,
within those who simply take the time
Consider the grass,
taste its freshness,
grinding its essence between your teeth.
Consider the flower,
breathe its fragrance,
content in the day's bouquet.
Consider the bee,
its healing hum,
beyond dull city's din.
Consider the bird,
wind on wings,
swinging wide the heavens' arch.
Consider the sky,
swish it round
the test tube of your mind.
Upon a rail the pearly moon sat waiting,
while all along the path in patterns gay
the branches of the forest spread soft glory,
ambrosial drink for one who would not stay.
A river trilled nearby, its plaintive story
o'er distant hills and vales reverberating,
as in between each subtle, midnight ray
bright fancy shone - but all was old and hoary
to one who in his haste was passing through,
who missed the fairy sprinkling of the dew.
and hear within each step
a thousand sounds,
a thousand years of warring drums
silenced in the stillness of this northern night.
Wind sleeps in trees,
darkness fills every angle
of the ebon sky,
while far out over the bend
of the great river
outcast dogs complain against the vast void
of heaving time:
but a greater silence doesn't listen.
Above me dreams explode
in magnetic sheets,
and song --
you must listen with your eyes.
and hear a tuneless tune,
careful not to whistle
(for, the natives tell me,
a whistle would end their song).
Sing on, sweet northern lights,
I walk on whiteness
ribboned with splendour.
immersed in the music
of my heart
© 2001 Rich Roach ~ Canada