Musings on the Thread of Time


A spinning disk of shiny black
A needle in a groove
Makes of marks a symphony
The music seems to move.


Yet I can hold the disk in hand
And carry it around
Play it once, and once again
It ever makes the sound.


At the music's sweetest mark
My hand removes the arm
The music gently vanishes
The disk it takes no harm.


My hand lays down the arm anew
The music springs into air
Do the marks upon the disk
Ever seem to care?



The music isn't really in the marks
Nor even in the sound
The music is the moving point
Where needle touches down.


The world we see, and touch, and love
Is nothing but the moving mark
Traced by the needle of our souls
To play the light in dark.


But who then writes the symphony
And who is there to hear?
Who plays again the poignant parts
And laughs or sheds a tear?


How many threads of music lie?
How many disks may be?
How many times is each disk played?
I guess, infinity.


But though I'm but a needle tracing
Shadows in a moving groove
Echoing themes in reverie
I pray the Listener, love.