heaven is the poem that nature sings. almond blossoms litter on the grass. when does the poet grow his wings? we rope our hearts to heaven's wing. our autumn names collect about our feet, listening for the poem that nature sings. emptiness is all cold winds can bring, and winter wins the memory of fall. will the poet find his wings? I say "no" -- but from some vast remembering, your smiling likeness counters me. so heaven is the poem that nature sings. can we be more than nature's suffering? you comb me through and feather my cry with light. will the poets in us unfold their wings. hands of rain, hearts of snow and sand. from winter's coil, our music magic springs. and poetsm are those songs that heaven sings. nature is the silence, beating wings.