Niente

               "Heard melodies are sweet,
               But those unheard are sweeter."
                                    Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn"


Whispers of a late dream
Wash the shores
Of an orange dawn

The lost waters are a lonely place
When even those of us who know them
Cannot speak

Save through wordless
Descants over song
Mixing amplitudes of Silence
Progenies splash the white church ceiling
In colors like Creation

I watch the swirling of the forms
The stranger in their midst
Whispers of nothing
Bear the sweetest sound,

And it is good.

                                                           November, 2011