Sssh. Don't touch the first miracle - the trees, the woods, suspended between sky and the mountain's edge. Sssh. The dark is tinting my words: words for air, for bird, for hedge where the light fades. Don't touch a thing that belongs to the past - the trembling lights on water, the small house near the stream where the stones dissolve. Sssh. I have to remember that green place where the road toward home narrows, the road with the sweet bouquet of winds.