Music’s decrescendo
tumbles down
mountain’s slanted face
then rises up again
in gentle strokes,
granting tender lilt
to lavender and longing.
Though it is just sound,
my soul could chase its haunting bliss,
and grasp
at every nearly-animate strain
to feel rhythms
slip through fingers
and barely wisp at skin,
arousing ardent lips;
But, instead,
I remain here
in these foothills
head upon a rock,
face and smile softly upturned,
listening to its distant
beauty,
And resting--
having known
the deeper kiss
of sufficient grace.

















35 old applause
