there is nothing that music cannot touch

like a roaring stream--
or a still brook
it cannot help but touch

those whose souls seem
ready to be reeled in
by beauty's inclusion:

one splotch of blue overhead
a mountain pointing to a star
too far to walk in a single day

but boots of gold go trekking
within newly carved pathways
the stones kicked by accident

in the wake
of sure shooting boots,
or the woody allen casting
of shore to shore shooting stars

carrying the weight of a life
piercing through the cracks
that let the light shine

jet black against the puppy soft
white underbelly
open clam shells clicking

spring showers, fling of flowers
newly found powers--that
ordained promise of one

spring green saviour

delivered by the time
the brain has rearranged
its circuits- now an open floor plan

how seamlessly the kitchen flows
into the family room, and how fluid
the windows reflect the blue stone

how loyal the fireplace has become
for the stories and accusations, drying--
the hand broom at the ready

to sweep weathered verbiage
into the flames- to be swallowed- to be
made prayerful

by the purple flame of st. germain

~poem/photo~kate lamberg (c) '17