To those who live with trees, This is the time the world probes Into swift season's overlap: A foam-white blood root or red columbine, Wild strawberries and pasture rose entwine To strengthen stems and simple truth, Renewing touch, a deep unending beat Of all fall's promises and talk In green word-mysteries of May. Ignore the yesterdays of bronze retreat: Along each tree-lined street And hillside softened into leaf, The wind speaks, not to us, But to the growth of grass, The unfurled bud . . . And long before the words, Teaching no lessons, no moralities, The wind, to every seed and root, Tells where will lie tomorrow's sun.