Children of the Song

Moon alights on Autumn winds.
Silent pines, watching.

Mists lie to sleep
at the feet of the Mother,
soaking in and
wetting her soul.

She dreams, drunk with
love-letters sent from the stars
the dreams are born
as lilacs, wet with dew,
tea, and chrysanthemums.

From the mud She sings
and an awkward and uncut diamond
slowly stands
beats the rhythm of the heart.
Tears mix with mist.

And stepping onto the path
You and I
become Children of the Song.