It is only in an open hand
That Fate would ever dare to land
As lightly as the waft of Monarch wings
Upon a waiting palm.
It is only in that raging calm
Where time gets full
That its song comes forth
In long melodious notes
Deep throated and alive.
A song whose pitch is out of reach
To all but that single breed to whom it strives
Its siren calls fall upon a deafness worn by all
But that lonely waiting one who has the ears to hear.
Like some silent whistle calling out to these four legs
And feathered wings to take its flight
To landscapes of the heart
We only dream about.