There is a world
beneath our world
where the windchimes dance
and ring
where silver sparrows whisper
the eulogies of dying leaves
where the nearby traffic
grumbles its way into its
smoggy oblivion
where the orange tree
stands at mute attention,
but casts a daring look
at the nearby swarm
of hovering bees.
There is a world
beneath our world
where roses hum like a choir,
their outstretched petals raised
in reverance, their
harmonies pure and tight.
It is a world where the wind,
like a genie's carpet,
flies in and sails by us,
fluttering the hairs on our flesh,
and where the sun
when it moves but an inch, alters
the multitudinous shadows.
It is a world beneath
our world that is always
alive, but is only truly
witnessed in the silence
of our profound stillness.
