reaching my fiddle bow up and out to the stars.
All through the day, the wheat grew tall and lazy.
I watched it sway and joined in singing,
my limbs dancing to a stirring anthem.
You did not hear the song.
Already, you pictured the bread,
and you combed through the dirt for weeds,
and cursed the too hot sun.
In Autumn, I played a colorful composition,
crackling with the fire of maple leaves.
The sun harmonized on long strings of mist.
You harvested and stacked dried husks
along the dark walls of your hovel.
too busy for frivolous melodies.
Now winter sings a solitary note,
a white music bright as ice.
I squeeze my fiddle bow and crank out one last tune,
The refrain is carried on the heels of frost,
fine as powder it cakes on your window pane.
And still, you cannot hear the song.