Listening to the Light

I once saw a movement,
a teardrop moving up from below,
a weeping trying so hard to be heard
that when I asked to listen,
the sound rendered me blind with its white light.

Where does one go in the sightless pure color of white
whether it be sadness, joy,
or something in between?

Perhaps closing one’s eyes,
venturing back to the dark
where in one’s unique quiet solace
white’s rainbow-light is visible.

Such colors of sound,
whose joyful crescendo can be heard
coming from the distance,
where sadness of diminuendo cries to not be lost,
to always be available to those
who can see the sound of the past,
understand the song of the present,
anticipate with clarity
the music of the future.

Strange, but true …

Listening to the light
is to know love’s beckoning.

Oh, my.
Oh, my.