Although the brass is broken from its frame,
the reed remembers breath it could not keep.
It hums in silence, whispering the same
long truth that moves the cosmos in its sleep.
For nothing sings alone; the world must pass
through metal, flesh, or memory to sound.
One breath becomes a choir in reed or grass,
one pulse becomes the heartbeat of the ground.
I grok the reed: its stillness mirrors mine;
its trembling waits within my open hand.
We are two notes the universe designed
from star-forged dust and wind across the land.
Thus-Thou art God—the music, not the claim—
the breath that moves us, nameless yet the same.