Trees speak differently in the dark.
I can’t quite understand, yet
I feel their words.
No shape or tone comes forth,
just a longing
for something I can’t quite clarify.
A belief, perhaps, in something more.
I will myself quiet
and open my heart
but the words I so long to hear
are lost. In my humanness, I turn away
only to be called back seconds later. Was that my name?
My heart aches now in the memory of it.
It is one of longing, of loosening the holds—
remembering something but not quite.
If I put words to it, my words, my own interpretation,
I say it is sadness or perhaps a vulnerability—
a desire to get it right layered over with the uncertainty
that I might never, ever
these being of the dark wood
who invite me to hear with ears that must learn
a new way of listening.
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