Had we known enough to look
and reach beyond our dreams,
would we know
the spirits we aroused?
As we reached to touch the sun
before its passage
through our dark horizon,
would we know enough
to hold the light that passed
until the moon
had wrapped the silver shadows
to comfort us to sleep?

What could be learned
from the branching of the trees
from one to another
in the passage of the sun?
What could lie before
if we were to branch from ourselves
and follow destiny
with the passage of the sun?

The path is not hard to see
if we shield our eyes
before the falling sun
and answer the whisper
of the longing destiny
that flows among the branches
of the trees which hold our fate.

For the world
folds into the wake
created by our lives,
before and after.
As in the passage
of the notes on the flute,
before and after
are then less
because of their silence.
And yet,
they are then more.
For the flute
will only be perceived
as the moment of the silhouette.

We are as the notes
departing the happiness of the songbird.
Living for a moment to be heard,
and then listening
for the notes that follow.
And yet,
we would be heard ourselves
and write our own song.

Our memory
folds the world
about us as a cocoon
before and after us,
shielding us
from the places we would fly
were we to conceive wings
and spread them
outward in creation.

I know not
what brought me
to the place I stand.
But the turning dawn
was brought before the day
as my hand sought
to know what held the light.
I take the crystal upward
to see what might befall
and in the evening take it down again
a little different somehow
and yet the same.

What was the day
I knew when I was then.
I took your spirit into mine
and then looked back no more.
We cast reflections back
into the mirrors of our lives
and look,
the crystal
was described again
but in a different way.

Look deep,
to the beginning of our day.
Look deep,
and touch the time
as the dawn
touches the last stars,
turning the world
over to the day.
Look deep.
Listen to the whisper
fading in the memory
deeper in our lives
than we might find
lest we were looking deep.

We were then
before the last day
faded into evening
as we passed
into our dreams again.

All things
have their meaning
and their place
in what we may become.
The sound of a leaf
passing through a life
touched by our passing fingers
is yet to be remembered
in the sound as we pass.

For we
are as the sound of the horn
echoing in the hills.
And yet,
as the echo passes
the horn sounds again
and we will be remembered
in the sound of the notes passing
from evening into day.

Come and touch
the evening and the day with me.
For as note
passes into note,
we are in our passage into destiny.

Turn
and pass with me.