Origin

Wind, when

you come you

become the

voice of leaves.

Your rests

give more weight

to your words,

which are the dreaming

of all the trees

you speak with.

Your hands

move easy

among nighttime,

the stars and

the ground conspire

there, softly

gardening by moonlight.

In the open

grass trembling,

you’re fast to find

the woods again-

the tongue and teeth

of your thoughts

form sentences

that bell and sound

between dark branches;

they tell the story of

the earth and sky,

lingering,

waiting for the sun

to come and quiet them.