I sang a simple, whispered note, as silent as a song,
not a song you'd sing with joy,
but quaver- rendered wrong.
My whispered note, it echoed soft, sad and flat-forlorn,
A muted tone on passing breeze and sad,
how passing sad its form.

I sang again three single notes, then four or maybe more -
All, I fear, in minor key,
more mournful than before.
I sang my grief, my shattered dreams
On bitter, keening notes.
The sounds, they hung on icy winds
Aloft, adrift, afloat.

But then the echoes . . .
around and abounding,
Reeling, ringing, calling, sounding . . .
They bounced on the breeze,
and battered, returned,
transposed, transmuted,
half sung and half learned.
My halting notes they lingered,
but their strident, bitter key
drifted softly into cadence
as your sweetness vanquished me.

For signs of you, my dearest one,
signs softly kind and keen,
they shatter every darkness,
they sweeten every dream.
The rivers warble wet with song,
the grasses sing your name,
in each mist there is a mention,
in each dawn - its oh, the same.

I hear your echoes, sweetest heart,
in every rock and stone.
They're harmonies of purest peace
in symphonies full blown.

Now, no more....
will I splinter sound like silence's thief
or wet -shed tears at grabbing grief
but rather . . .
I will ever sing your song.
Oh,
My air will be your aria,
my medley eons long.
I hear the echoes, world's apart,
so am never now alone.
In melting into melody,
I've secret -- sung you
home.