TOUCHING THE TREE
Faces are bending over me asking why
they do not live here they do not know anything
there is a black river beyond the buildings
watching everything from one side
it is moving while I touch the tree
the black river says no my father says no
my mother says no in the streets they say nothing
they walk past one at a time in hats
with their heads down
it is wrong to answer them through the green fence
the street cars go by singing to themselves I am iron
the broom seller goes past in the sound of grass
by the tree touching the tree I hear the tree
I walk with the tree
we talk without anything
come late echoes of ferries chains whistles
tires on the avenue wires humming among windows
words flying out of rooms
the stones of the wall are painted white to be better
but at the foot of the tree in the fluttering light
I have dug a cave for a lion
a lion cave so that the cave will be there
among roots waiting when the lion comes to the tree
— W.S. Merwin, from his book The Rain in the Trees, (1988, Penguin Random House), used by permission of the publishers. Copyright © 1988 by W.S. Merwin.
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