He dreams of rust-gowned trees aglow
in the rays of blood-rose sun,
as the bright blue sky turns violet,
he catches the change on his tongue
turning shadows to song.
Later, he’ll recall this light, this change, this song,
and if his daughter cries at wild, wind screams,
he’ll strum the notes and sing.
The Oracle always knows. This seems to be a companion piece to something I just wrote (not posted).