The Tantrum of Serenity

In the secrecy of bare feet,

the warbling trees speak to me

in rasps on the wind.

And it is all the less troubling.

The childish pioneers speak ill

of the heroes that came before,

and the man you met yesterday

longs for vacuums on his map.

Idols sing the hymns of nomads

boarding railway cars.

And I will stand upon the bell tower

until it peals them home.

But the trees speak not censure –

speak not in deference,

and cast no bane at the sight of the gale,

though they must have so much to say.

Their words ricochet

between the lampshade that swallows the moon,

who softly sighs his treason in

the ear of whom he swoons.

And it is all the less troubling.