Too often I hear a whisper
I stop before the hush of words
finds release upon a willing tongue.
What can I wish for when the rain,
just beginning, finds my nose
among all others?
How can I long for more
when the cedar bough sky
and the air,
a quiet song of love,
embraces my heart and the earth,
beneath my feet,
offers rest from weary travels?
Are not the waters that sweep the shores enough nor
the peace of a quiet tree before the sun arises?
What other place but where I stand, tempers my soul
with the grace of the squirrel
who knows no longing?
I wish, I wish
to be …