We tend to never hear, what the things around us say.
Some are soft and subtle, and some are hardly heard…
Like the opening of flower petals, the breathing of a bird.
Sitting alone and being still, I've heard more things I know…
Like the play of pretty leaves at night, the sighing of the snow.
The whispers of the breeze around, the tinkle of the rain…
If you ever learn just what they say, you'll never be the same.
To all they speak of different things, it's up to us to hear…
They can speak of love, or happiness, or make us think of fear.
I listen to them here at night, and think of all that's past…
And when they speak to me just right, they help the memories last.
So rain is not just falling down, it's giving to the grass…
And ice isn't just for feeling cold, it can decorate your glass.
The wind means no real mischief, when it's playing with your hair…
It plucks from you your fragrance, and tell others you were there.
The flutter of a small birds wings, says "Catch me if you can!"…
The call of lonely wolves at night, when they are speaking to the land.
Springs flowing down the hill, seem to laugh and dance around…
They caress the rocks that linger there, and make a chuckling sound.
So when you think it's quiet, because the hustle and bustle's gone…
Just relax and try to listen, for hidden are the songs.
And when you learn to read them, and savor everyone…
Is a time you'll put to music, the setting of a sun.
Ron Walker January 2000
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