when I start upon
my journey,
and the trees
to whom I've pledged
to listen
lean down
with their heavy
burden of sleep,
branches still filled
with the thick
mist of night,
and whisper to me
in their rustling stupor
in a language which
no man could ever
hope to speak
because there is
no code to decipher.
So who am I
to render any of this,
I wonder—let alone
interpret?
No being could record
such ancient words—
and really,
no one has to try;
no living thing
need sightread
the wind's song, since
deep inside, they've
already got it
memorized.
