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Staring out the window in February, The trees are talking; They are silhouettes against the sky, Speaking a foreign tongue. Yesterday a tree spoke to me. It said, “The soul is an animal sloping gently towards God”. The ecstasy of trees, The shelter: It all comes back-- That day under the lone pine of my youth. The needles were a gentle touch Against my cheek and palm. The breeze was soft and compelling. It was almost as if Wordsworth were there, teaching. In the wild mood of summer The wild grapes were ripe, And dew was as honey on the grass. The air was full of water, And rivers flowed like arteries of blood Upon the land.
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