What more could I ask for in this long life
but a healthy portion of fresh patience?
While the world turns I post up, fragrant, rife
with silence, in the vortex of passions:
From the terroir of three thousand rosebuds
I grew strong, bold, sweet and thin like tree stems
tapped for chicle – They sapped all of the woods
for want of my fluid, my liquid gems:
But I was rubber, not gum, so they failed
to stick my essence to any meaning;
"This bark was louder than that bite," I wailed –
sheets of sighs, as my sang streamed out shining:
Listen to the rustlings; the universe
riddles through trees, seas on its fickle course.