have I heard a poem
as good as the trail nymph
recited,
speaking breathless of a soft pine needle
patch one might find near the peak of the hill
          where sun freckles alight playful
                 beds soft as a doe with fawn might desire?
Right up there, she silently said, past the curve of that creek
head up the root covered hill, just a few feet farther. I followed her gaze,
nearer than you imagine,
I did hear her,

saw her taut arm and lithe finger point me to there. Then she told me, you will find a poet there.

      in sunlight patches and growing lichen and moss covered wisdom
you will find him there.

He will bestow a poem to you, a wise and memorable poem, but, promise me to treasure it faithfully.
          
When I awoke,
there where I was led, on that peak of the hill
                  and the bed of needles amid
  many birds, scurrying animals, silent and speckled by daubs of sun and limb, I heard it.