Comfort in an Old Tune

The fields echo an old tune
without words—a music beyond
memory, even of trees that hear
whispered hints from the wind.
The sound of growing things,
clover bloom, corn tassels,
cries of mating birds,
silence of passing clouds,
comfort the ear in waves.
Not the snarl of headlines,
fists of machine guns,
clack of helicopters,
nor the squeak of poverty
as it turns on the dry axles
of city streets.
Anger and hate find new voices
each generation for blasphemies
not dreamed of under the big trees.
Only a green tongue thrust from
a clod of earth sings for a fresh
start no war ever promised.