Par fenêtre...

If there is but life in the solid silence of fallen mountains,

 in the rush and rage of pools meeting fountains.

The stagnancy of this movement, the constant roar, 

the silence envelopes the strength of peace.

Peace.

Is it peace or is it the end?

An endless circle, the particle process, the advance of the cyclical climax of thought...

Or lack there of. 

But who really cares?

The senseless masses breathe in the deep breaths of sunlight and shadow, 

hills and meadow.

Shale and sleet and bread and meat.

But the fallen of mountains rest quiet by the fountains.

And the children of the senseless find treasures.

The Conversation of Trees

A dialogue of whispers and gasps and air.

A conversation that moves my hair and my soul as well.

I thought the birds were beautiful, but then I looked higher...

The sky, a tower. 

The branches above my head create a darkened web of what is earth.

And the silence is broken by the sounds of soil... growing... 

Up.

I turn and sway like one of them, a crescendo fills my mind, my heart reverberates.

What is locked inside my ribs, and what is released in this clean air!

The same! 

The same are the lives of bones and marrow, leaves and roots, flesh and grass...

For all flesh is but dust, all dust is but soil. 

And soil is the mother of the greatness around, the leaves on the ground, the vibrations of sound that pound through my chest to where small birds make a nest...

To where the birds’ conversation is much like the trees, and the rhythm of movement is defined by one thing...

Up.

The earth is a slipper, and the quiet soles make no noise, no movement...

no awe-inspiring steps to jettison us on our way.

But yet it moves, yet it breathes.

In. Out.

Up.