The Sound

The sound of a dove passing overhead,
As I lay on a meadow like a worn bed,
The wind wrestling with my cotton shirt,
My body sprawled out on the cold dirt,
A tree above shading me from the sun
As a pale river nearby gently runs,
And the sweet flowers dance so fair
Through the white bits of snow in the cool air,
The green of grass echoing in my eyes,
Playful crickets filling my ears with their sighs,
The charm on my necklace rolling to the ground,
Winter passing into Spring,
This is the sound.