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Music and Lyrics: "Three Leaves on the Wind"

Music by David Rubenstein
Words by Barbara Kupferberg


MP3 files of live performance by Windsong Harlie Sponaugle, soprano; Michael Bowyer, flute; Nancy Genovese, clarinet; Amy Rothstein, piano

  1. A New Day MP3 Recording; Sheet Music and parts in Scorch Format (browser plugin);
  2. Windsong MP3; Sheet Music and parts in Scorch Format
  3. Flames MP3; Sheet Music and parts in Scorch Format


I. A New Day

Words do not a fortress make,
Nor sounds a perfect paradise,
But like a paperweight can seem,
A small world, self-contained, concise,
That we can enter when we choose,
Life gives us tools that we can use.

Sometimes too many trials arise,
The trails of chance oft hold us back,
The woods so wild, the way so black,
That we must close our eyes awhile,
Allowing dreams to spin the dial.

In the end, the muse brings peace,
A small perfection in the hand,
A sound so pure, it brings a tear,
A word so placed, no more to say,
Brings dawning of a better day.

II. Windsong

Where does the wind stay, when it is still?
Soft on the mountain, high on the hill,
Hums to itself, prepares for the flight,
Gathering windsongs, all through the night.

Where stays the spirit who sings me my poems?
Soft as a moonbeam, high as my heart,
Choosing the phrases, tasting the words,
Capturing images, taming wild birds.

When I am empty and thirsty for life,
When I am lonely or troubled by strife,
High on the mountain and soft by the hill,
I wander; not singing, not humming, just still.
The trees of my soul bending deep in a prayer,
The hope in my heart bursting out of its lair.

Listen, the wind sings a song so inspired,
Wonderful, perfect, so beautifully fired,
Is it the spirit that sings, not the wind;
Are they but one, wind is spirit, spirit wind?

Ah, inspiration’s a breath taken in,
The air is a windsong a spirit can sing,
And high on my mountain or low on my hill,
I bend to its fancy, I yield to its will.

­III. Flames

I write at the whim of my fire,
And burn with the heat of the flame,
There is no desire for glory,
Nor thirst for the flavor of fame.

I write at its whim, where it takes me,
Meander the paths at its will,
See the world through the glaze that surrounds it,
Aglow with the blaze of the kiln.

Blowing glass, making pottery's exciting,
What's created is new every time,
Forged by one's mettle, metal tested,
The letters of fire need not rhyme.
Like fire, the holy breath feeds it,
The rhythm of life sets its beat,
And the red and the gold are its banner,
The whim of the fire guides its feet.

Poetry moves unrestricted,
Burning bright in the glory hole's eye,
The breath of the dragon that fuels it,
Reaches higher than the stars, than the sky!