"And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, ﬁnds tongues in trees,
books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything."
— William Shakespeare
The branches have mouths which mutter and sigh,
bending boughs to touch and remember the earth,
bereft of the very soil they arose from,
searching for broad expanses of sky to surge into, shaking their leaves
as though in penance or martyrdom for their unnamed cause.
There are elaborate thoughts ﬂoating upon
charging, changing currents of a wild river,
unspoken words to be listened to and heeded
if one only knows how to open their masked sounds
and decipher their various languages.
The stones know, but remain silent.
Their path is not to lead, but to stay -
their religions consist of endurance, of hidden wisdom.
They know the allure of water and its slow, subtle effects.
To forsake the edges of a madding crowd is to seek
and ﬁnd a peacefulness not availed in a public square -
the noiselessness allows your inner voice to question,
to enrapture its way around your bowed neck
and lift your eyes to the nature of what surrounds you
within the dense forest, the innocent glade,
the valleys spilling their boldness everywhere.