by Bob Moore
There is this beauty in the woods
displayed on bronze and amber leaves
that wait to fall all winter long.
They seem to sing the longest song.
They rarely move and like a blade
of grass that lies above the snow,
they have no other place to go
and let the throes of winter pass
with ties no thing can sense but time,
ineffable, like space between
two strings, like silence undefined,
a kind of music in the mind
that doesn’t end, is always played,
is present when new lives are made,
continues breathing, pulses, thrums
a tune the cosmos knows and hums.