your ghostly fingerings
will not create
watery music
on my eyelids.
(I can no longer cry for you.)
your smoky murmurings
the grass retains,
and your voice undulates
as the light, soft breeze
flits through the glades.
(I hear you as one hears the wind.)
your imperceptible strumming
is as far from my
blood-blushing ear
as the sky in the open range
is to end.
(I see you everywhere therefore, nowhere, and you're invisible.)
your prescient words
are earthy now,
and so they must remain;
until, they're washed up
in a mud-puddle
by the dulcimer-sweet rain.
