No wind in these willows
though the poplars tremble
and blackbird clucks warning.
Silent this earth,
that is ours to labour if we will.
Once we held the dreams of a clutch,
kept the wolves at bay.
Once night fell and sleep came easy,
easy as the contentment of babies,
rocked in our spreading boughs.
Stars still fall, but no one can find them;
they dart like timid fish among the silver grasses.
Once we thought it was enough
to wish and rock and spread,
our roots gripping this earth,
that this birdsong, day and night-haunting,
would fall into their ears too,
like the placid embrace of a lake.
But seeds, once scattered,
fallen like bright stars into the green ocean, grow,
and the sun will rise in the west
before these beloved seedlings
will weave their roots with ours.