Cusp

Moon kissed music, skin taunt
ing surface strung on violins,
mellow autumn made melliflous in
sping's zing, all made up of new tings
and smoke rings.

Dropping beats in convo, echos of ghosts
conversing in daisy decked grasses
as something surreal slips past,
mundane made sane against
small things.

Sun's chords dispell illusions of
created chaos, the frequency to which
mystics and scientists attune, the music
to which  the spheres turn, observing teachings

and reaching.