A Ripe Calm

When the woods are this deserted,
Ecstasies and furies settled
Back underground in caves and springs,

Only the slightly anxious wind
And the usual hungry beasts,
Horns on their heads, time in their thighs,

Wander through the quiet branches
Nibbling at the leaves and sighing
For the heavy fruit of boredom,

Exquisite, ripe, just out of reach,
The reproduction of the trees,
The overplus of memories.