Grasping the bough sat the
Bird-like-leaf shadows among
Long branches of the willow tree.
In the moon shadow of the wind
Dancing... dancing the
Bird-like-leaf dancing.
From the leaf-bird there came
A song. Curious... As I touched
the leaf-so-dancing it flew away...
took of song.
Faded with the wind into the mystic-
Purple valley of the moon.
Forever gone my bird of sweet
song... dancing... dancing...
My leaf-so-dancing into the
Misty-purple shadows of the night.
On the wings of the blowing wind
I rode back into my childhood of
yesterday.
Once a garden grew... of each purple
lilac flower my grandmother knew.
Silent... still the big oak tree.
Gone the swing I swung.
The garden gone where once thick
ivy-vine close clung to the cold
stone wall. Of thick vine the ivy hung.
So faint a voice I still hear...
over by the lilac tree my grandmother
calling to me.
On the wings of the blowing wind
I rode back into my flowery-
flower garden of today...
and here I shall stay.
I know grandmother is here in
the garden with me.
Always loved a sky of sapphire
blue, the woods, the lake
to view.
When I was a child of nine,
in the evening- twilight I would
listen to an owl in the
forest- wood of a summer-time.
His song, his sound of
sad-lonely.
Years later: of late September,
the harvest moon low, all
aglow. Over and over again
I listen to a sad-song from
the lonely owl. I LISTEN LONG.
A whispering-touch blows over
the farmer's plowed field...
a cold-chill of autumn's wind.
The night: a drifting cry through-
out the forest comes a sound
of lonely from the owl
over and over again.
In a garden summer of the summer
garden the flowers once grew. Gone
the swing on thick-limb branch...
High the branch top I would swing...
passing bluebirds high... I touched
the wind in summer sky.
Over by the rose garden, there in
the white-painted wooden gazebo
you could hide. Red roses grew in
summer's pride. To the cold-gray
stone wall green ivy clung.
The twisted green-leaf-vine
the ivy hung.
Silent-still the big oak tree. GONE
the swing I swung. Now... no bright
jeweled flowers bloom the garden.
A weedy path where the roses grew.
GONE the forgotten childhood
summer garden I once knew.
Long ago on the piano my mother
use to play a song
'Parade of the Wooden Soldiers'
Oh... how I loved that song.
As she played... I listened.
I could see the wooden soldiers
in red suits marching down the
city street... I could see them
drumming the drum... the little
red and white drum.
When mother on the piano played
this song I knew I was in for a
treat and quickly by the piano
found my seat.
Oh... how I loved the song...
hearing this music on mother's
piano all was great...
nothing to go wrong.
