the babbling brook

 
It does not budge the mind that wakes to dream
of the words – the leaves of grass that you recite
only in woods where toads look like rocks
descending the incline to see the steep below,
walking only to your mind on a hand, a tree that said nothing,
it only pointed to a bale of hay that spoke the dedication
reminding me of something in the clover fields as earth heated,
what a coincidence, indolence is life that we see in the old ways,
sometimes I fall into the same passage of asylums
hurrying to cut the grass before it rains,
wondering how formal we need to be anyway.