Misconceptions

I linger beyond the rigid dormitories where wise, winter diplomats speculate over my weaknesses and vernal rites (as if I have no rights). Still I can hear the arguments staged as soliloquies by ancient wooden tongues and even though I bow, a humble green sprig, a burden on their branch, I cannot translate the chatter of knotted knuckles and settling sap. I know their eyes eavesdrop upon my Sinai and bear witness to my streams of misunderstood whispers as if they might interpret my lexis of suspired scrolls; those vanishing ellipses that curl from lips and condense into youth's defiant veil that can’t be rent by reasoning I’ve never experienced. If I close my eyes will I find meaning in this cusp of Spring, in their incessant dialogue of dried arms signing strange arborous proverbs?