(Today we conclude our latest run of work by John Grey. We hope to see more of John and his poetry soon–LA)
(Both images by Christopher J Ananias)
Listen.
The air vibrates.
The sound you hear
is an instrument
with four strings, four notes, only.
And each of them is stretched
through leaf vein,
wildflower stalk,
the sap of tree trunks.
Spring, summer, autumn, winter –
the melody returns,
year after year after year,
as faithful as the moon, the tides,
as ancient as the turning earth.
Only we, wandering listeners,
argue over the player.
the maestro of the seasons.
Is it the wind, the trees,
the invisible hand of time,
or something deeper, vaster?
Dispute all you want.
But keep your voice down.
Listen.
