I sit on the branch of a tree.
I’m still — but still a thought gets away:
On still the tree would move in the wind
I matter not to the tree,
And the tree is unmoved by my thought
But by the wind.
Memories remind me of old fancies.
In childhood I actually spoke to trees
Who, in silence, seemed to listen
And respond to me,
As did the whole world back then,
Awaiting me and I it.
Who listens to me now? I cry,
I cry and cry and try
to imagine the tree opening its mouth
to say, “Well done.”