From here:
Suddenly after long silence
he has become voluble.
He addresses me from a myriad
directions with fluency
of water, the articulateness
of green leaves: and in the genes,
too, the components
of my existence. The rock,
so long speechless, is the library
of his poetry. He sings to me
in the chain-saw, writes
with the surgeon’s hand
on the skin’s parchment messages
of healing. The weather
is his mind’s turbine
driving the earth’s bulk round
and around on its remedial
journey. I have no need
to despair; as at
some second Pentecost
of a Gentile, I listen to the things
round me: weeds, stones, instruments,
the machine itself, all
speaking to me in the vernacular
of the purposes of one who is.
Avenue of trees. I have looked at this several times. It is at its best when there's a full canopy.@ThePhotoHour #landscapephotography #landscapelovers #photography #countryside #wildflowers #nature #avenue #trees pic.twitter.com/6coQOeeab2
— GeoffMPhoto (@GeoffMPics) June 8, 2022