When She returns to the woods,
Or the dream that is Her creator
It is the late afternoon.
Her exit beckons the coming dusk
And leaves me with a most excrutiating tremor
In the depth of my being
That She could somehow know me
Yet not be able to sit and chat
Yet I know Her, and that will have to suffice,
Until I solve this permanent mystery.
She comes as a breeze each day around noon,
The highest leaves of the trees bristle
With a shiver of anticipation,
In the heat of these special moments
She raises Her voice, as a sustained wind bends
The branches holding the leaves,
I marvel that those branches
Willingly bending with Her breath,
Never breaking.
From this wind comes the slight force of Her questions
Carried for how many miles
By the voice of Her unending curiosity,
I fancy Her soft pondering to be evidence
Of Her sensuous presence.
Her questions are never blunt or overbearing
So that even all evil defers to Her ease.
We sit together each late afternoon
As I rekindle my love of Her voice
Its sweetest rhythm, Its sensitive knowing
And I revel in my own reflection,
Thanks to a breeze with a voice
That is, to me, a person
Yet to others I must surely seem insane with each coming season.
Her exit beckons the coming dusk
And leaves me with a most excrutiating tremor
In the depth of my being
That She could somehow know me
Yet not be able to sit and chat,
Yet I know Her, and that will have to suffice.
Then She returns to the woods,
Or the dream that is Her creator,
As the dusk descends softly
She blows me a kiss.