I will wait, said wood, and it did.
Ten years, a hundred, a thousand, a million—
It did not matter. Time was not its measure,
Not its keeper, nor its master.
Wood was trees in those first days.
And when wood sang, it was leaves,
|1913||The Fool’s Song||William Carlos Williams|
|2017||Beautiful Thinking||Angie Estes|
|2010||The African Picnic||Elizabeth Alexander|
|2017||Soave Sia Il Vento||Adrian Matejka|
|1891||Song of Myself XLVIII||Walt Whitman|
|1891||from Song of Myself XXIV||Walt Whitman|
|1953||The Waking||Theodore Roethke|
|1977||Sitting at Night on the Front Porch||Charles Wright|