An audience
By

    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
    Without me;
    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.”

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    Hilary Rasch, Nov. 1, 2010