it is but a melodic line upon another, aligned and sung forth. be it with or without sense, it makes for a tirade against an impossible back beat, weathering itself warm until the cold feels as if it were never welcome, seemingly called upon only for a tension, built.
both aesthetically pleasing and logically programmed on each, it creates but a wanting to be heard through; that original series of notes blending seamlessly until the notes themselves convolute and forge forward, willing to greet the day as just one of three.
and so the mayflowers bloom in spite of themselves, all too early but without malice in their spines; without a hunger to be lined up. becoming trillium without realization of a center where it speaks but from all sides.
it is from all sides, the music swells. and swell it seems to be, in season. no question of the spring air, no gardens showing a wintry air.
the roots shown forth clearly; the hammer falls, thrice, and begins again.