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.