Nature That Grows
by Odin Roark


How real your unreal air,
glistening micro vats of life
my lungs drink in,
while wind of your 1st movement
my ears do transcribe.

To my left the ocean’s drum
proclaims the 2nd,
skewered silt pulling
current past timpani slabs,
the gray rush of glacial tears
rushing to final ringlets of chimes,
surrounding burials of
harp’s fixed ropes asunder.

How many have climbed your podium,
lifted baton upon sound and eyescapes transcendent,
deftly planted movement around rests of mind
knowing suspended life continually seeks gravity.

For some,
amidst simple breaths,
crescendo now clashing,
ethereal flames alight,
the symphony’s 3rd,
a compelling bene, bene.

Yet…

But a short distance beyond,
preparation and patience sings out,
beckoning solitude and peace.

Strings hold fast,
inspired spikes beneath my prod
deliver me atop.

The crescendo of merit bows.

Nature applauds.

My eyes look further,
as pride peers upon another opus of peace,
seeking yet further seas yet to navigate.

Because it’s there
proclaimed once
is not enough
for some.

Often simple experiences
of harmony’s unease
layer upon one’s pursuit
to where music’s infinite nature grows.