Picture: Matin sur la Seine by Claude Monet
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Tears of trees, I drink,
Unable to shed my own;
Cries of birds, I hear,
Mute in my fruitful despair.
Tears of trees, they are sweet
Like mother’s milk;
Cries of birds, they are harsh
Like father’s reproach;
I drink and listen,
For this is the Language.
Yearning for reconciliation,
I welcome my chosen fate;
Is weaning essential to divine acquaintance?
Acquaintance with self, perhaps:
Encapsuled, within,
Or raining down, without.
Tears of trees, I drink,
Sweeter than a lover’s kiss,
Yet unforgiving,
Like the most beautiful discipline
As it turns you into a disciple,
Thirsty and yet fulfilled.
I let the darkness shroud me
Into the womb of the land,
For light shall be birthed, anew.
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Herons