a single leaf
attached by a thread
flutters with the wind

why does it not let go
and join its brothers and sisters
to blanket the ground

does it believe it will
recapture its vital force
with the return of spring

or does the tree hold on

my yet un-born baby daughter
dances **** in mother's waters
a wild child, she, who loves to play
while i must hold the world at bay

a winter moon shines palish white
above her sleeping head a night
and there she dreams of sweet delight
of better days to come

Chorus:
I know God...

Voice One:
I remember planting a
small bean seed.

Voice Two:
I recall the miracle of a
newborn's fingers.

Voice Three:
I recollect the
tug of a
windblown kite.

Voice One:
I marveled how
the bean sprout
struggled against the earth.

Voice Three:
How the kite rose
majestically
into the sky,
then darted back and forth,
as if to nod
its approval.

Voice One:
Finally, the sprout
opened its leaf
as if to say hello.

Chorus:
So, while I may not have conversed with God,
I most certainly have shook God's hand.

I recall dry summer days
And how dust could linger
   in the air.
I loved to watch the trail of dust
   of the pickup,
As it drove those old dirt roads.

I enjoyed opening a slamming
   the big chests
      in the attic.

And I was fascinated
   by the fog
      of dust
I could create
   in the chicken yard.

Dust seemed to rise
   in the summer heat
      and billow
         and slowly
      ever so slowly
   settle
to completion.

How sad it is to kiss and part.
The morning fog must know this.
It comes in the stillness of the night.
It settles, caressing its beloved,
And leaving with the break of day.

Curtains, blown by an evening's gale,
Applaud movements of the Coryphee,
That sentry for everything frail
And the things of beauty put away.

She dances to melodic chimes,
Which haunt the summer evening's air,
She leaps, turns, points, and spins in time,
Unmindful of her sentinel care.

She ignores forgotten keys, rings,
Bracelets, pins, a small glass hummingbird,
As well a wads of necklace strings,
She keeps on dancing, without a word.

Still ballerina dances,
Doing pirouettes to some refrain,
Ignoring her audiences,
Never seeking any other gain.

Yet, with time, every life must fade.
When this life, by key, has come to end,
She answers her death unafraid.
The chest is closed by a gust of wind.