A poem to Silver Spun Sand
A flock of swans yodeled over
and I thought of her
in her garden, awed
by the rhythmic beat of magnificent wings.
A sudden shadow cast a cloud
above the ink-fall of her pen
which marked a sketch of the musical thoughts
she remembered tripping
from younger fingers all
about the keys to her feelings - dolce, at first,
then smashing tremendous crescendos;
starting with, where
do they fly
when their last song fades
to a sound like the rush of a brush
on the metal of cymbals brimming
with flashes of rainbow thrown in with a fritter
of life, do they float off the edge of the earth,
as glitter, charged bright
in beautiful splashes of silver spun sand
to flare their ethereal light to the stars?
Shine down on us, stars - remember
we know you.