by Charlie Morgan
it comes from the land,
from that clearing where grass gone to seed waves a greeting as you pass,
from those rocks in the stream where the waters sing as they go around,
wearing their crown of white touched with yellow as the hair of an elder
who has seen eons of life--
from the notes formed of living fibers fastened to the earth yet
free, where the wind plucks its tune known only to the hearer.
there is a song in the breeze, nameless, but you have heard it always.
it sings to the eyes, the beauty unseen, but felt in the soul.
it sings to the eyes, the beauty unheard, but felt in the soul.
it sings to the eyes, the beauty unknown,
for there is a song in the breeze, nameless, but you know it.
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