Two years ago, in a younger age,
in metallic words on sandstone page,
a nightingale sang summer
along the invisible drummer
who never saw cage.
The still trees and the longer days
have changed me in unspeakable ways;
from the windless nights in quiet song,
to the innocence that lived in wrong,
to the bygone days.
The fountain stands, forevermore;
I cried beneath its subtle roar,
and the nightingale sang silently,
to nature's simple melody,
behind the closing door.
Another man once saw the bird,
conveyed its life in metal word;
that rusts beneath time,
but shines in my rhyme,
though water leaves it blurred.
The door, to which I hold no key,
still remains there, tauntingly.
But through the crack I hear a tune,
Of midsummer afternoon,
and forever, in that summer, I will be.