the hills are green and blue and purple
and the road is shining silver-black.
today we are grieving, today we are dying
tomorrow, still living, the same as today.
the sky holds the secrets, the rain and the clouds
showers and gusts and the spring-flurried moths.
petals and perils and the seasonal crops,
whispers and wonders and weary old mouths.
and here in the morning, in the light of the day
where everything's passed and the piper's been paid,
my window holds prisms and the prism holds skies
and the hills in the distance and the shining of roads.