memoirs of a poet

I press play on my tape recorder,
To the beckon of your laugh.

The frigid whisper of the wind,
The new-born chirp of a robin,
The drowsy call of the tide,
The descent of auburn leaves.

And yet, I'd still say nature's Magnum Opus,
Is that sweet,
stuttering,
jolt 
of
joy summoned from your cracked lips.

Golden Luck wraps around me as I press play.
To hold within my calloused hands,
A sound that would make those at the summit want to climb back down.
The answer to every eternal question:
Philosophers would quit. Engineers would be made redundant.
A sound that rallies up silence, 
A brush and a can of green paint,
Charting itself in the family of things.

The peak of creation. 
Each beat, break, stress, syllable is etched, 
Like a lovers pinky promise in the bark of a tree,
Within my mind, my memory.

Through the meter of your laugh, 
I take your soul within mine.
I play it back to the Lord,
Thanking him for evidence of the divine.

Imaan