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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The first thing I learned was that even stone remembers its root, and the forest, hearing my hesitation, offered me its voice not one voice but a thousand, braided loose as a river, each syllable arriving dressed in leaf and light. A barbet corrected a hornbill mid-sentence, wing brushing wing, while termites conferred low along the ground. I knelt to that murmuring parliament of ground, and felt, beneath my palms, the old committee of root debating slowly what the rain had meant. A wing grazed my shoulder not fear, just courtesy and a voice, mossy and unhurried, asked to borrow my light for a poem she'd been composing since before the river had a name. I said yes, and watched the whole river lean in to listen, its current pooling like held light at my feet. Somewhere close, a fig tree's ancient root shifted, made room, the way an elder makes ground for a newcomer at table. I had never used my voice so gently, or been answered by so many kinds of wing. A kingfisher settled its blue accounting of wing and told me the local word for joy was river agreeing with a stone. I gave the moss my voice back, changed, and she thanked me, returned it to the ground gently as compost, gently as a root released at last from wanting nothing but light. Evening came down in long coins of light, and every creature folded its particular wing the way a sentence settles after its last root has been spoken. I understood then: this river, this whole exuberant congress of ground, had never once withheld its voice only waited for mine. I raised my voice into that generous, undivided light and felt it taken up by branch and ground, by moss and moth, by every migratory wing, until I was only one more tributary of the river, one more grateful, ordinary root. Now when I speak, some small green voice answers on the wing; I carry that forest's light home like water carries a river; and gladly, gladly, I give my ground back to its root.
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