The last time you didn’t listen to meI was talking about the river
and that old sycamore tree.
How all winter I offer
prayer-ties to this touchstone
while she guards the dark water.
It is spring now, I feel her stir,draw up from root, to limb, to branch
the assurance of another leafing season.
No direction, instruction, distraction,
no “I’m too busy” – just her
gentle patience in soft morning light.
But you weren’t listeningoff on some quiet journey of your own.
Preoccupied with mail, coffee,
the evening news.
Wandering the caverns of
the empty work pages of life.
What I wanted to say wasI’m still here, that I long to plough
that deep unnamed place
from which my sap still rises, flows,
my skin still sheds and
my hands still bud with poems.