Begin the day... and I awaken to the gentle tingling, <br />Of the morning mists even flow, nights final breath. <br />And malaised by the gaunt and murky shroud impeding the sunrise; <br />I intently await the unfurling of natures morning crest. <br />Enter...an eerie chant of pipes, its echo invokes my intrepid sense; <br />A sudden, biting thrust of woodwinds approaching with intrusion. <br />Its sound a whining, writhing pitch as I spin in awkward motion; <br />To reveal the source and contain my paranoia's quench for peril. <br />But Woodwinds in the air? <br />I'm alerted to scriptural warnings <br />Woodwinds in the air... Read the Book! <br />I have long lamented through each yellow parched page... Now I pause; <br />When, my God, I am besieged by a thunderous chorus of woodwinds. <br />Are they in six or seven? Its numeral symbol represents the entity; <br />Shall I prepare for strike or implore absolution, when suddenly I... <br />Ascend my head to the screaming skies, my eyes a affixed in awe; <br />To a flock of natures feathered flyers, ensconced in melodic exchange. <br />Juxtaposed in arrowed flank, their conductor at the cusp; <br />No steeds or trumpets in this group, nor beasts with jagged horns. <br />Yes, woodwinds in the air indeed, but the message speaks of Genesis; <br />And I close The Book and embrace the sounds of natures free concert.<br /><br />Frank James Ryan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/woodwinds/
