Song

Much time has passed at times wondered would it last. Then I heard her sing, as my knees listened, to the melody enveloping the silence, like a soft breeze through the trees.   This once opaque silence readies my head for the pillow. In sleep, in dream I'll wander to this place of her wonder. She truly is a flower, and the wings of this Nightingale do sing. She soars over the meadows as I search out her soft bed of moss; amongst the trees in the forest I'll find her nest. background & poem by Gary Hodges

photographer unknown