trees iv

by Donald Kuspit

rise wordlessly,
                        clouds the only wit
left in the sky,
                        its emptiness
              the bitterness
of thought,
               the thunderstorms
of the gods futile,
                       their wisdom
wasted in echoes,
                     finally abandoned
in the silence.
                   your leaves rustle
with the first music,
                         the wind ferments
your freshness,
                   you grander than time
as you cast your shadow
                               on space,
lifting me to the heights
                                 of wonder.