words by walt whitman
music by michael billingsley
Behold this compost! behold it well!
Perhaps every mite has once form'd part of a sick person--yet behold!
The grass of spring covers the prairies,
The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden,
The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward,
The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches,
The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves,
The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree,
The he-birds carol mornings and evenings while the she-birds sit on their nests,
The young of poultry break through the hatch'd eggs,
The new-born of animals appear,
The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead.
O how can it be that the ground itself does not sicken?
How can you be alive you growths of spring?
That the winds are really not infectious,
That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea which is so
amorous after me,
Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient,
It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions,
It renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops,
It gives such divine materials to men,
and accepts such leavings from them at last.
from One More Day
released October 30, 2013
Michael Billingsley: trumpet
Jarred Antonacci: trombone
Michael Ford: sax
Jason Herrmann: guitars
Robert Lorenzi: spoken voice
Rob Smith: drums
all rights reserved