What's the point of urgency in the trees?
Their tales won't survive a twig-tip longer
For all the anxious quiverings of leaves.
The urgency, in any case, belongs
To the wind, which can never live nor die,
Which makes an absurdity of its songs
About what might have happened otherwise
And about what yet might or not occur,
How quickly, painfully, contrariwise.
All trees have are roots exploring what was
And therefore is, and nothing that will be.
Their veils of leaves and needles are sheer gauze.
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