Then I wander into the nearby woods,

and though a bird sings

a plaintive song from his heart,

he awaits  the answer from a female bird.

 

A frog at the edge of the brook is croaking.

And just as the sun plays a game of charades

with the small, cirrus clouds in the overcast sky,

I encounter a log in the water,

felled perhaps by the congregated beavers,

 

so that the brook gurgles loudly now under the willow.

Then, with apology to every bug, every fern,

every rock on the mirrored path, whose being forms

a part of earth’s glory and passion,

 

I hesitate—

 

for I have forgotten the lesson of the garden: 

The story told by flowers.