I could scarcely remember,
The spontaneous creation, or the gathering,
Launching this tumult of dreams and nightmares.
Nor the steady wind, cold and bare,
Sentinel to the eternal spring unfolding.
The birch and willows bend to me,
Weaving their songs; their slow chant
Moaning in the seething breeze,
Singing to themselves that ageless tune.
How I would have bargained
The great torrents of my youth,
Raging in its glory, making the high cliffs quail,
Or the quiet brooks when the stars are captive
For a single song again.
Oh how I have swollen, slowly
Feasting on my memories.
Becoming the turgid reflection of my kind.
Filled with poison thoughts and careless whisperings.
I long to see beyond the estuaries,
To pass the deltas to the great unknown.
I think of the wild wind pulling me,
Caressing the trees and the steady sounds of ancient singing.