There Will Be No More Sounds

When the winds have washed away the cliffing fears

there will be no more sounds save the sound of years,

that pass politely through the gilded glades

where the bird wings bellow like sharpened blades.

Some few may stand in shadows then,

the few that remain to hear the wren

who warbles weakly in her familiar song,

whether time is too short or naught enough long.

There will be no more sounds save the sound of dreams

that beat all too stiffly or rend apart at the seams;

or the wingbeats that balance time on a scale,

like feathers that wither so dreams are as frail.