when bent the oak
to catch the sun –
the slightest truth undone
became of storms
as leaves might sometimes fall
innocence to touch the ground
truth to bear them up
wind to carry
lovers one and all

when moved the rush
of willing waves
cold their fearless cries
as dashed upon the rocks
a centaur fell
green as first the mossy banks
held their secrets long
pressed the way
along the summer swell

blossoms rest
beneath the bark –
pines are lonely here
still reach their bony fingers
toward the light –
tell me there
another tale
of where and when
and whether
we passed before
as shadows of the night

. . .