Why do you not speak?
I ask the brush.
Your wild body hangs down.
Here, green arrow leaves,
here, a dead tree, surroundings clear,
and, here, five-pointed wild flowers
that are deep purple.

I dare not speak,
it answers,
for here is all I have,
I am here for no one to listen,
to be haphazard against the din.
When fire breaks out,
I am torched,
When the moonrock shines,
I hum inaudibly.
But by the time you have come and gone,
the delicate dance is right and wrong,
strong you are, like the water,
and I weather like rock,
you sing, you suffer.