
By John W.
Somewhere it started,
Somewhere the wind blew,
Somewhere the gale was howling,
Somewhere the song was heard.
Somewhere was not here.
On the quaking Aspen the harp hung,
But so foreign this land,
No song of home could grace it
A lost right hand better than
Plucked strings of joy.
Yet still The Aspens Sang.
The aria of boughs caressed
By invisible zephyrs
In harmony with leaves all
A shiver, a Voice of joy and hope.
That this land, that life, my life
Upon which my Aspens grew
Had become by me so defiled, so false
A land, a life of lies, even when the
Truth no harm to me would do.
So this heart held no song
This heart felt no joy
This life seemed so hopeless
Yet still The Aspens Sang.
They sang until I could again sing.
When my heart once more
Was filled with song I cannot
Recall to the moment, yet
As an incoming fog it upon
Me spread its cooling blanket.
I knew somehow I now believed:
Even I could again know joy,
Even I could again know hope.
This sanity with it brought serenity,
And still The Aspens Sang.
Their song weaved through the forest
Of my veins, so the sap within them
Flowed freely, nurturing ever branch
To which they within organs reached.
The Aspens Sang, I believed that Song!