The Music Plays Across The Open Sky

The First Day

 

The music plays across the open sky, whistling through the old, gnarled trees of the forest, across the rocky crags of the mountain tops, and worming through the valleys below.

 

If I listen hard enough I can hear the long, low lament of time even from here, so far from its beginning, even further from its end.

 

On an endless summer day, two children run along the beach, full of life, immortal for the moment, they run with all the joy of life and youth never-ending.

 

The salty surf sprays them as they pass by at breakneck speed; neither starting nor ending, rolling in and out.

 

I see them as clear as crystal, and feel them in my heart, mournfully happy on an endless summer’s day.

 

They know nothing but play. The boy, lagging behind, fair skinned and strong, laughing in the salty breeze.

 

The girl still ahead, bells tinkling around her every movement; hair black as a raven’s wing and eyes as green as nature itself.

 

They hold all the fire of life, the innocence of youth, and the mischief of experience. The moment has neither beginning nor end, but plays out with the slow, stalwart pace of the ages and the frantic pace of all living things.

 

They embrace and time stops in this perfect moment of love, there is nothing else.

I look up at the night sky and the constellations form her face everywhere I look, the stars light the fire in her eyes, and that dirty, mischievous little grin plays on forever.

 

I smell orange blossoms, the essence of purity itself and know that all people know this pair.

 

The primogeninators of humanity.

 

They look forward and know the road will be hard, yet they run for it all the faster, across a beach of pure, white, sand.

 

They celebrate the morrow and mourn the past, regretting not an instant in between. Always running, for the sheer freedom of the act, the pleasure of existence, and the joy of life and life to come, forevermore.

 

Even now, on a quiet summer’s night, I can still hear their laughter in the air, and smell orange blossoms on the fresh breeze.

 

Comments 13 comments

Joy At Home profile image

Joy At Home 7 years ago from United States

Ha! I always wanted to be the first to leave a comment!

I love this poem. It's a great first hub.

For reasons I can't explain, it's a bit chilling, but it puts me right in the moment, and is therefore beautiful.


Ivorwen profile image

Ivorwen 7 years ago from Hither and Yonder

What a beautiful poem! Completely charming, and yet chilling. :)


Jarn profile image

Jarn 7 years ago from Sebastian, Fl Author

I quite like it. After almost six years, its the only piece of poetry that ever really jumped out at me. It seems to me that it'll be the only piece I'll ever do. I never really viewed it as chilling, though I suppose you both have a point. It's because the moment is perfect and beautiful, though fleeting. That's the point, really: eternity can pass in a moment and a moment can seem like eternity.


mshuler1 7 years ago

I held my breath reading this poem.

Releasing my breath hurt. The purity of this writing made my throat constrict.


Dim Flaxenwick profile image

Dim Flaxenwick 5 years ago from Great Britain

So Beautiful, I cried. Thank you for sharing such lovely thoughts.


Jarn profile image

Jarn 5 years ago from Sebastian, Fl Author

Thank you for the kind words. This is my one attempt at poetry. Verse, rhyme, and meter just clutters things, I find.


Joy At Home profile image

Joy At Home 5 years ago from United States

So why is this your one [published] attempt? I know you've got more in you - I read poetry all the time in your e-mails, when you've "let your hair down" and aren't striving to maintain a strictly analytical face....


Jarn profile image

Jarn 5 years ago from Sebastian, Fl Author

Maybe because this is the only time I was inspired by something hopeful and pleasant. I'm not certain what about my emails that you're referring to, but most of it is either angry or depressing, and I'd rather not do that to a reader.


Joy At Home profile image

Joy At Home 5 years ago from United States

I'll consider pulling up some examples, to show you what I mean about your accidental poetry. Time is at a premium, though, so don't expect any this week. In the meanwhile, I'll quit screwing around and actually go write you an e-mail...as promised last week.


capricornrising profile image

capricornrising 4 years ago from Wilmington, NC

Really, really lovely. I think you should open your possibilities and let yourself write more, if your fingers find themselves willing. (Perhaps they already have!)


Jarn profile image

Jarn 4 years ago from Sebastian, Fl Author

Glad you liked it. I don't do much poetry anymore. At least not much that wouldn't be too depressing.


capricornrising profile image

capricornrising 4 years ago from Wilmington, NC

The best art examines every aspect of the human condition - depressing, if honest and well-explored, can be cathartic to a reader (and sometimes to the author). I have a feeling you'd handle it with authenticity and the complexity it deserves.

Same with prose! I'm eager to read yours.


capricornrising profile image

capricornrising 4 years ago from Wilmington, NC

The best art comprises an examination of the human condition, even at its ugliest - "depressing" can be cathartic to the reader (and sometimes to the author). I have a feeling you'd handle it with authenticity and the complexity it deserves.

Same with prose - I'm eager to read yours!

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