Lingering Echo of Silence

Do our hearts open wide enough
for the Miles in us to wander,
for Evens to glow like dusk on piano wire,
for Coltrane to spiral through bone,
for Mozart to rise like a sudden flare of light?

Do you ever feel sound become vision,
lifting sorrow the way dawn lifts fog,
a simple 4‑5‑1 turning tenderly
into the bright fall of 2‑5‑1,
as if harmony remembers your name?

Then comes the shimmer of tomorrow:
Philip Glass spinning glass-blue circles,
Avro Pärt brushing Botti’s trumpet with silence,
Krall smoothing the air,
Clapton stirring old echoes,
Harold Budd drifting soft as breath,
John Adams grounding the earth,
Bryan Tyler reaching outward
toward where beginnings begin.

Mose Allison snaps the edges awake,
Metheny strums to the faraway,
Pink Floyd floods the senses,
Roger Eno cools the pulse,
while Schoenberg and Webern
carve the quiet clean.
And beneath it all,
Bach, Mendelssohn, Bartók, Stravinsky,
the deep roots humming.

For aren’t we all
melodies searching their shape,
hearts leaning toward the music
that keeps silence
from swallowing the world whole?