Voice in Green

What is that thing
Eluding our grasp
Which only nears in prophecy

What cannot be touched
That thing in the grass
And water, dripping in quiet places

Show me that one
That sighs with the wind
And plays silent games in the eyes of a wolf

So deep, I feel it
Buried in my belly
Singing of mountains
Voice in green

I wrote this soon after watching Mamoru Hosoda’s Wolf Children. The film touched my mind in places that recently stirred with thoughts of prophecy. Of destiny, and confluence. What I saw is that the language of rhythm in the ways of the world is spoken by the world itself: by mountains and rivers, lakes with their frogs; it’s spoken by deer, chewing, and far-ranging wolves. The sky speaks it too, but then only softly, and light like the breath of a newborn child. I glimpse it in squirrels and sleeping dogs, and in films that shine through and beyond the screen. It’s the tale of our lives – yes, it is written. There it sits, waiting for eyes that would read.