I consider songs to envision
To rework and render
Skin and clay susceptible
To delight, darkness and delicacy
Like trembling, painted fingers
Trailing along a frozen frame
Of glowing glass.
I consider songs the rich
Omnibus of man
And the portrait of his passions
Is a lusty garden of words.
All songs ripen the vine
And spill blue rivers of thunder
I can touch the age of the moon
And this living acquiescence to joy
Is the quicksilver hand of God
Moving upon the deep.