When the raw things sing, it sounds
like piano keys, struck and hammered
down into shapes of peaceful oblivion.
It hides like so much gold bullion, culled from
its darkened corners. The reverberant tones
refresh the song, renewed in its own
useless glow. But, only the fondest
things find place among the stars.
When the raw things sing, goodness comes
unfettered from the whipping posts, where
splinters of music protrude from the broad
skin of our places. Its volume grows
with each stroke of note and stem.
Lines, heavy with light, take space
among dreams and laughter of clouds.
I guess it only looks for seeing ears,
and the urge to sing.
Picture found here
