To The Lone Statue on the Hill

Tree-branch arms and a heart
that moves like a propelled seed across grassy hills
The wind is your voice - a rush of flight away from the concrete core that binds you
You encompass your audience with a mortal presence, you embrace their inner-most and don't dare to let go
But what will you compose of us?
Salute your wooden orchestra and make a song of what your sadness is
Because a flute is playing across the street, across that other street, and further
without direction
Sometimes I believe my words are not hard enough to break
They are a crumbling puzzle at your feet
I imagine climbing the hill on which you stand, growing weary of each step as a vague silhouette shines opaque on me
Perhaps this note of notes will suffice
And the sound of words spoken is the final chant that binds immortality within