The song of change has begun to play. Again. We have heard it before, you and I. Have we not? Have we not laid in bed and listened to the birds begin to lift their voices in the sweetest melody ever heard? Have we not heard it again as we strolled through the aisles of the grocery store, listening to cans and boxes and melons tumble to the tile?
And now as I sit here, knowing you are sitting somewhere looking at the same blue sky and the same puffy white clouds, I can hear it begin to sound again. Can you? Do you hear it, my love? For me it sounds of motorcycle rumbles, trains on tracks and planes overhead.
Whistle me a tune, dear, and send it on the wind. Tell me what you hear, have heard, and where you’ve been.
The rustle and volume is rising…and I know you hear it too. What is the sweet song of change now telling you?
Sending you my love, on the wind and wings of butterflies.
On feathers she walked, drifting toward the moon on notes of Bach and Beethoven. Floating over fields of lavender, and rivers of honey. She waved goodbye to the alabaster house on top of the hill, and blew kisses on the wind, hoping they would land on the hearts of those she left behind. For her heart had danced to the rhythm of the hour, and her feet had skipped to the sound of the drum. Her lips had delighted in the jasmine and berries, and her eyes soaked in the golden of the sun. She could have stayed and swam in the senses, but her lover was beckoning her, calling her home. And so she floated to the sky, to reunite with him where he shines, watching the people from afar and reveling in their joy.