a firm wind blows solitude back into this valley.
my cabin moans and clicks
trees know that they don’t know that they claw
their fingers along my metal roof,
tracing the rain that feeds them.
i can admit that they’re not speaking to me
but don’t ask me to deny that they speak.
only humans speak to each other
all else speaks with.

my voice is not the truth of my mind,
nor are my actions. the mind is its own truth,
void of a pure expression.
my heart speaks only with blood, yet its ache
is far more ferocious than the movement of cells.

some breaths draw all the worlds into the lungs,
some only seek oxygen.
passions breathe from the heart
to be reconciled in the brain, only to be sent
back to the heart, pumped into cells that travel
toward the fingertips and the eyes, where
they look for a way amongst the physical.

the wind picks up, pumelling a crow’s momentary flight
before it finds ground on a telephone wire.
its claws fingering the hundred silly conversations
trapped in that thin black tube.

28 may 2009