The Folds of the Mountain

as this end of the valley recovers from winter

rain washes dead wood into the slopes

over the murmur of insects

striking dull chords among the spring flowers

the deep silence of evergreen oaks

their cold roots like the clouds reshaping

no motives to be marked by distance

time is a faint memory as it begins again

dawn lowers from the treetops

birds commence their calls

in darkness hesitant

and we will say it's a new day

but there is no beginning nor end

the night sky changes hands

as countless jewels of water sit

undisturbed by the breeze

at the ends of clean leaves