When we’re old and decaying
And our souls set free
Our limbs will become trees
And from out those trees
Our fingers form leaves
And from out our mouths
Sprout words,
That will form into birds
And these birds will fly
To the peak of the sky
And sing songs that ring
Immortal melodies
That sift through the breeze

EPIPHANIES

I let my silence speak
what words fail to tell…..
meaningless is the flow
of metaphor and rhyme
when you only see
a shadow of me
in space and time.

I wonnder at life's mysteries
and seem to wander too deeply
into myself
only to discover
there are no epiphanies

I feel your joy mamma,
as in the morning sun,
light strikes the diamonds on the trees,
their dripping
makes a music for my thoughts,
shakes bare bushes down below,
as when you too,
went out in morning's air, rejoiced,
took deep breaths, filled your lungs, 
and doing so filled your heart with songs
of happiness, so glad,
not mad you'd say,
just sensing all around,
allowing nature to whisper,
thud, in notes of natural things.

The wind hums a lullaby
In the heart of a forest
Deep asleep.
A brook flows
Like cymbals played in tranquility
Accompanied by the lovely silence
Of reverie.

The trees and the flowers
Sway in the gentle summer gust
The reeds by the river bank
Play their lovely flutes
- Echoing on and on.

The birds on the old branches
Chirp sweetly
Along with the toads
On top of lily pads
Floating on a pond
Deep in slumber.