Fall Back

FROM MY STAND

The night trees often play sax to my prayers,
backed up by the trombone train.
But the holly rattles a distracting theme,
while vines shoot to a higher key,
and I must listen close to the chorus of roots
that plunge to a throaty base.
Peace will come in a clarinet joy of grass,
as Spring conducts a symphony.

Now that it is Fall the hall seems empty,
and I must rely on memory.
But I can, you know -- are at least believe,
that the music was surely etched
in grooves of my restless mind and spirit --
by a balance needle called my soul.