I read today that every tree
Has its own, unique, song. And I imagine
Choirs in the forests, full-throated,
But only when the last human
Is gone. Because music, thus noted,
Thus aired, thus floated,
Cannot possibly be heard for free.
Maybe it’s too late to pay our dues
Maybe those tall singers dance
To another muse. Maybe their song
Is not something we can choose
To be. Because music thus spoken,
Thus worded, thus broken,
Cannot possibly be heard for a fee.
I read today that every tree
Has its own, unique, song. And I imagine
Choirs in the forests, full-throated,
But only when the last human
Is gone. Because music, thus noted,
Thus aired, thus floated,
Cannot possibly be heard for free.
Maybe it’s too late to pay our dues
Maybe those tall singers dance
To another muse. Maybe their song
Is not something we can choose
To be. Because music thus spoken,
Thus worded, thus broken,
Cannot possibly be heard for a fee.
It’s just as well, sometimes,
To see no trace of the storm.
To crunch through fallen leaves
With joy. Not to note the forlorn
Branches, that say nothing of thieves,
Or the berries that cling. In foreign climes,
It’s best not to notice, sometimes.
Such clouds that haunt the blues
Are best seen in sunny skies.
Across the path, just feet away,
Another berry tree lies.
Standing, still, you can hear it say
‘Leaves, or berries, you have to choose.
Thus much to win, thus much to lose.’
Giti Chandra 