What if no words remain?
What if they are lost?
Abandoned, dispersed, powerless?
The Poets are there,
in the rooms you visit.
They acknowledge you,
even welcome you.
They open the green robe,
and drape it from your shoulders.
You find words in green thickets,
You see words soughing in beeches and oaks,
sighing in ribbed, roadside grasses,
whispering in sand, loess, peat and clay
whistling and singing around mountain peaks
lilting down valleys
humming through ripe-grained fields
riding rivers’ rapids,
rattling gravel beds,
churning and crashing over falls
spinning and spiraling in whirlpools
lazing languidly in lakes
You hear words rushing,
cascading over the land
down, down to the ocean
who claims them
at the edge.
Her words are in the green faces you painted
when your own words were locked.
Now you are the face of green
you hear her songs
you know her singing.
You are her prophet;
you are her singer;
She, the long green woman,
voice of the land.