by Thomas Davis
The old year hung behind a hill
that sang with birds and bears and animals
as numerous as water plummeting over black rock
to a canyon far below a granite cliff.
The new year, over the hill, was shrouded in fog,
whiteness obscuring dark shapes
that could almost be made out inside the hint of brightness
from a sun that could not be seen.
We walked into the mountains with our two dogs,
the old year on the hill behind us,
the new year over the hill in front of us,
and we listened to the singing of the old year hill
and wondered why we have to keep going on
into a fog that could hold miracles
or a continuation of rich songs now behind us.
by Thomas Davis
When the flute of my songs speak,
The rushes on the riverside move,
And the gray nets of time
Spread out in the seas of life
To catch the tiny fish, man.
O love, can you not hear?
The whisper of the rivers is no more
Than the flute of my songs.
The unthawing ice breaking in winter
With thunderous booms of music
Is only a single, insignificant note.
When I praise your beauty
The mountains listen with valley ears,
And the deserts repeat my praise
In the patterns of their shifting sands.
O love, can you not listen?
Can you not hear the flute of my songs?
a children’s poem by Thomas Davis written for Sonja and Mary when they were young
There was a song that I once heard
When I was very, very young.
I heard the songs of bright night stars
Cold singing in a silent tongue.
There’s no one else within the world
Who heard their silver lullabye,
But now I’m telling you, my loves:
Go out and listen to the sky!