Help me find the tune, the timbre
in thunder rolling through the hills.
Electrify and clear me,
recovering my scope.
Scape of majesty.
Chord of tranquility echoes. Empties.
The river breaking. Bending.
Wide and bountiful.
Tadpoles and tortoises,
diamonds blink and flit.
I’m claiming all of it.
Stretching. Reaching.
I am eager to begin again. To begin again.
Wrestling with the sound and silence.
The lion and the lamb were promised.
I hold the shape, waiting to be born.
I hold the shape, waiting to be born.
I hold the shape, waiting to be born
©2007, recorded on “Beautiful Illusion”, Marienne Kreitlow