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