There is not much to say. Here are trees, sky,

dancing for the eye, forever singing

praise of what, I do not know, though I,

in all I am, declare a soft burn ringing

through the caverns of a soul, the deep-

down patterns shifting into form and sight

of this, here, still is moving through a sleep

into that realm of shadeless, roaring night.

There is yet much to say, but nothing more

shall ever paint this as it stands in sway:

these trees, sky, here for I, who ask, implore

the world to listen, and the heart to pray.