Concealment

Don’t listen.  Wind says bitter things at dead of day.
Sit with your hands cupped numbly over ears,
Eyes shut from seeing light fail early, far too soon.
The gray moans haughtily across the roof,
Glad that I am cowering;
And Sun sees only the obese backs of clouds
That cluster on the storm like flies on rot.
And we below the clouds, what shall we do?

Close your eyes and sing, but silently,
The notes still caught and taught to whisper
Among the strands of your hair and in your eyes,
But don’t forget to close your eyes
Lest they betray you. 
Don’t let Wind hear you sing of fragile things:
Of brittle gold that slips through the clouds
To light the tiny purple bells of flowers;
Small birds in blue and scarlet, bright-eyed and bold-winged,
Daring to dance upon the bright sun’s rays;
Of butterflies that remember only a few days 
Winged in utter freedom,
All aglow and copper-jeweled, emerald-decked;
Of blooms drenched with sweet fragrance,
Shattered at a touch, yet whole upon a summer’s eve,
Lifting their souls into the twilight.
Sing within yourself--somewhere deep within the heart,
Where winds fail at last and the clouds part gently
And only Sun can find his way through the keyhole
To light the gardens, the myriad flowers that know no wind.

Stay silent as the storm blows all around,
But never lose the song, for it is peace.