It’s all very loud out there right now. Perhaps no more than normal but it seems so to me. All those decibels, hertz, vibrations reverberating constantly. So much noise is generated and amplified and some people throw words about, like sound doesn’t matter.

The quieter voice, which says very little but when it does is entirely necessary, is hard to hear. Perhaps that is why when I read the words of this poem they darted straight to my heart, where I am unable to forget them, where I can unwrap them from time to time and listen.

‘And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields’ (Kahil Gibran: On Pain)

I keep hearing about the trees 

and how they talk to 
one another underground 

about how the birds 
stitch up the sky 

how trees turn golden just before 
they let go of everything 

and enter the 
season of the sticks 

how they endure the 
harshest of days 

but are still prepared to offer 
buds and shoots at the first sign of warmth

and when I look up between those branches
the moon looks right back at me 

as if she could love me