The winter’s morning mist still loosely wove
its faint tendrils between the mossy stones;
A piper piped a woeful note and strove
to fill the scene with music’s bitter moans.
Incessantly he blew into his reed
that swelling fermata, and then he woke:
while echoes whistled back over the weeds
his fingers lifted from their stops. He broke
into his song, giving his answers to
the soft replies the winter breeze returned.
He played into the wind as she then threw
his song back unto him. The cold, it burned
his cheeks a rosy tint. His cheeks puffed out
as he droned lower still. They played as one,
nature and he, and sung devoid of doubt.
So day had come, and slowly rose the sun.
Poem: Music of the Morning
Tale Told 