Not wind through willow limbs that sing of rooted past,
but our first tunes, drummed upon catgut strings, cast
beyond early stirrings searching words to fit a melody
of earthly work, we find a moment’s worth of immortality.
Not wind through willow limbs that sing of rooted past,
but our first tunes, drummed upon catgut strings, cast
beyond early stirrings searching words to fit a melody
of earthly work, we find a moment’s worth of immortality.
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Music to my heart . . .
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Universal language, married with poetry, emerges a song like a butterfly from a cocoon.
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This time every year, I miss Elko….
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We have survived another great Gathering, Melinda! Headed home. We have a few iPhone photos to post once we get there.
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