when the breezes
are innocent and light
and the angle
and length of the shadows
are just right,
that's when
the trees—
which consented
to embed themselves
here, it would seem
just safeguard your
insignificant street—
seem to murmur
on infinite repeat
their equal-parts sage
and radical counsel.
You can just make it out
through the soft drone
of leaves:
something about how
you need
to move more slowly—
or better yet, freeze
and keep perfectly still—
if you ever hope to hold onto
(as they do)
and vouchsafe all the memories
of every mundane
and incredible thing
which has ever happened to anyone
or anything
in the vicinity
and repeat them all back to us
exactly like this—
in the dispassionate way
that they happened.
