ANOTHER POEM FOR SPRING

For a Musician Who Does Not Hear the Silences

                            I heard the forest grow this morning

                            And supposed you would have suffered it as silence.

                            Unused to hearing at this frequency,

                            Could you have missed the love songs of birds filling unseen nests                                                                                          above?

                            Would you fathom the last whisper of the fluttering cherry blossom

                                           in its movement to a new measure of fertility?

                            Might you sway to the breathing of this moisture-moving planet

                                           pulsing in the bent and breezy tree crowns?

                            I sense the rhythm of newly unrolled leaves sucking in the sunlight

                                           of their nourishment.

                            The whole is throbbing, moving, singing . . . .

 

                            I wish you could hear it through my ear buds.

                                                   

                                                            Oblate Rob Wilson , 2021