The birds who used to grace my windowsill are gone,
winging their way to warmer climes,
and the falling leaves that now gather there
rustle a song only when the breeze stirs their sleep.

Soon even these will be gone
and the sleet will cast its stinging notes against my pane,
while the wind howls an oboe accompaniment.

How long ago that first bright bird
fluttered its wings for my favor,
sang a cheerful song, pulled me into spring.

Stored in my heart are the melodies
wrapped in the tissue of time.
I unfold each one, draw out the seasons,
run my hand gently over the notes
that carry the tune of my life.

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