background image
against a sky, it traffi
with the world intricately
and persistently, fastened
by many ways into things;
moving to the world's movements
its cotton drifting thickly
through the air on certain days
in midsummer is a sight
ordinary and solemn.
I spend half an afternoon
underneath this glistener:
in a light breeze the leaves make
a fi ne pattering sound, like
gravel sliding down a slope;
if the breeze strengthens, the sound
becomes a voluminous
general hissing; stronger still,
and the hissing becomes a
roar of massive excitement --
as if a cyclone had struck.
All these sounds are the sounds
of her present, passing, while
her trunk and limbs, hard things, dream
permanently, beneath sound
the dream of air and rock
and water, things around in
inorganic splendor. -- Now
from the leaves I can tell how