Seen but not heard, a 
vision of silence again
and again.  I think all is
new, fresh as a lime over 
ice in the shade where 
the dapple obscures
isolation. The quiet
follows regardless of
audience. 

I can answer that 
question about the poor
tree, falling alone in the 
forest. The answer is
yes. Definitively yes. 
Without reservation, Yes.
Yes.
Yes. 

It doesn’t matter that there
are no ears and all the boles  
are closed, barked poles 
tightened against the wind, 
all sound absorbed in the 
evergreen floor. 

That wail, 
that crack of pain as the roots
heave great chunks of earth
and branches flail a last futile
grab for the sky, is heard
by the one that made it. 
The one who’s dying knows
what death sounds like, even
after it sounds like silence.