Walking my garden paths
fingers inspecting leaves
snips cutting spent blossoms
I hum a tune born
four centuries past
across continents
and seas
I wonder if the author
as he wove his tapestry
of notes and voices
imagined his music
would live beyond his life
persist through time
as empires rose
and fell
I wonder if he
as the ink dried on
quavers and triads
imagined his melodies
would grace the flower-scented air
of distant gardens
in a land
unknown
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 