It's the trees—not the wind—that's speaking
And what it's saying—is only—what we hear
What I hear—in fantasies of sharing—in dreams of knowing something
It might be a reply—a gurgling yes or no
To teach me what I know already—in my confined world...
There's something there—I know there is—although it's not
Yet touched—a voice not heard—still beckons
All my love—although it dies—without a sound
I hum its gentle murmur
