Nocturne
Our fingers weave silence like the hands on a piano
before they touch the keys. The music held complete, waiting.
Over what instrument do we hover? Whose song?
It sprouts like corn in a field. The summer sound of growth.
On the edge of the song I find an old tree
And a treehouse. Lights twinkle inside.
I am building a stone wall at the trunk, New England style,
Piling loose slab upon slab, spending hours on the balance
Of space and solid. Grave and strong. It will never fall!
You walk out of the song and step over it.
Translations from the English 
The imagery is alive and I am in a summer field.
Thank you. I am wishing for a summer field on this 19 degree morning!…
Just beautiful, Jeff.
Thanks, Len. Every time I hear from you, it is like you are right back at our family table, sharing a meal and laughter.
Look over the rim of your glass of wine, and there I am.