I’m to study how branches converse, tangling against each other,
on top of and underneath.
I’m not to interpret,
but to listen and intuit,
drifting with the oration of the forest,
unwedded and yearning,
unfolding with me inside of it.
I’ve been told again and again by those advisors who can’t be seen,
I must listen, quiet myself.
Listen.
Perhaps I can hear the clouds sailing above, hanging lower, turning grey with the weight of the water they’ll return to all of us who live below,
or the movement of the soil pushed at by inspired, pale roots,
and the toads buried so deep,
still pulsing,
gently.
Every moment there’s a letter to be opened by each of us,
a honeyed serenade gifted to us we must read and release,
making room for the next.
I need to tend to these glorious sermons.
Listen.
