I think of all the things I would say to you
& contemplate the reason
For wanting to say them
I think of all the things Id wish to give you
& ask myself what it is
I have to give.
Silence. I want you to feel
What I feel when I have it
So let me write it to you
Let me tell you what I hear,
At this instant, of pressing
The p of this pen to the paper on my knee
Let me tell you
Why the oak trees are so gorgeous
And why the wind therefrom so pure
Tell you where and how.
What the leaves are doing
The clouds.
The spider lines trembling
Captured in the
Eternal open shutter of sunlight
Married
Buried by my eyes
And the wind, the wind, the wind.