From the way the pine needles
quake and sputter
I see the wind that will march across the lake
tomorrow or the day after
fluttering my back
as if I were still among the Colonials
and the deflated Santas of the day after
wandering in the music of the past
listening for the beat of tomorrow.
Tired of all who come with words, words but no language I went to the snow-covered island. The wild does not have words. The unwritten pages spread themselves out in all directions! I come across the marks of roe-deer's hooves in the snow. Language but no words.