Hill-Side Tree

Like a drowsy, rain-browned saint, You squat, and sometimes your voice In which the wind takes no part, Is like mists of music wedding each other. A drunken, odor-laced peddler is the morning wind. He brings you golden-scarfed cities Whose voices are swirls of bells burdened with summer; And maidens whose hearts are galloping princes. And you raise your branches to the sky, With a whisper that holds the smile you cannot shape.