It began with no ado—
the fig tree always blossoms,
so that was nothing new.
The sky was filled with wonders,
but wonders are the norm
to those who've learned to see.
There was a holy hush,
now that you mention it,
a stillness like the sound
of marrow in the bone,
regenerating life and sending out
red cells to slither down
the cylinders so small.
I guess we should have known—
the moon that funny color
like sun at six o'clock—
But we'd grown accustomed to
the tricks the atmosphere can play,
polluted by the progress man has made.
Yes, now I do recall
a far-off sound
like some musician tuning
in the practice room backstage.
But I see this all
in hindsight; I really
didn't notice what was happening
until the trumpet blew.
