Root Key

Forest hides the woods. Quiet,
The birds sing out noisily,
The eye is a metaphor
That signs for itself. I see
When the wind moves through the leaves
But not when the downward search
Grasps life microscopically,

And all life's microscopic
When it comes to intentions.
I want dreams to answer me.
I want to pose a query
When I'm sitting in the trees.
But I know I can't ask them.
Talking woods hid the tongue's key.