I watch dreamers turn to terror
in acts of unbecoming; laughing  
till’ they come across some caesura
that caps their throttled love
shifting into stone.

In observance I sing with a tongue plucked from centuries back,
as an attestant to melody and motion
for those that forget nature
is always dancing.

A forest is only idle
when we’ve lost our time for rest-
in rhythm it sips joy up again
and sheds it in sweat upon a stage of itself
for nothing more than color
and the song of an insect.