On the grayest of gray days a stone drops into the well, the reassuring splash never comes; listless wild geese circle the skies; the path through the valley never ends with no shepherds in sight; the Sun hides its face behind darkening clouds; our songs are but sighs in the roar of the wind and hope flickers like a faint star in the distant winter sky
"our songs are but sighs
in the roar of the wind
and hope flickers
like a faint star
in the distant winter sky"
This is a satisfying expression of music as a mode of breath. Nice. As volatile as they are... It is funny how stars and hope fo together.
Although not common here, we’ve had a number of days of those gray skies. Seems like they last forever. Could feel that through this poem. Thanks, Bob!