Our father says the sound is loud enough to wake the dead.
The music is alive tonight in infinite weathered measures,
dashed harmonies of branches beating time in the wind,
notes run from low whispers to percussive bangs that join in concert,
nature’s drum and strum of all notes and tonal movements,
inspiring enough even for the dead, sat in seats of honor,
that even their soundless rooms cannot escape those numbers
on the thunderous side, their skin and bones that took
quiet seats, become caught up in this supernatural symphony.
The dead, I picture, stir in sympathy, each life a kind of written song recalled,
those masterpieces faded but still not forgotten after death.
And tonight, I imagine, although for now they must listen and not play,
this storm’s a reminder they’ll soon rise up and dance their souls away.