If a tree falls in a forestAnd no one's around to hear itDoes it even make a sound?Of course it doesWhat a stupid questionJust because your earsDid not hearThe tumble of the timberDoesn't mean it didn't happen.When we close our ears off to the worldThings happenWhether we want it toOr not.If you really want to hear a treeCrash its lastAnd first fall
I have a scar on my thumbShaped like a crescent moonWell, maybe if the moon was drunk.I got it when I was twelveAn impatient girlUsed a pocketknife to cut cardboardBecause scissors just didn't make the cut!And I sliced my thumb.I have a scar on my earWhen I was young,A skin tag marred my perfect visionOf a perfect ear.So when I was still young,I got it removed.It's faded nowBut I can still feel it.
When the sun rises;The rooster crows his cue,Misty oranges and groggy pinksSlowly turn back into blue,And graceful flowers shake offThe droplets of morning dew.Dozing birds perk up,And sing their daily tune.Ocean tides drag sleepilyKissing the shore wake too.All happily watch the light of day,And all await the moon.
These tiny loiterers on the barley's beard,And happy units of a numerous herdOf playfellows, the laughing Summer brings,Mocking the sunshine in their glittering wings,How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!No kin they bear to labour's drudgery,Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose;And where they fly for dinner no one knows--The dew-drops feed them not--they love the shineOf noon, whose sun may bring them golden wine.All day they're playing in their Sunday dress--Till night goes sleep, and they can do no less;Then, to the heath bell's silken hood they fly,And like to princes in their slumbers lie,
HE crawls to the cliff and plays on a brinkWhere every eye but his own would shrink;No music he hears but the billow’s noise,And shells and weeds are his only toys.No lullaby can the mother findTo sing him to rest like the moaning wind;And the louder it wails and the fiercer it sweeps,The deeper he breathes and the sounder he sleeps.And now his wandering feet can reachThe rugged tracks of the desolate beach;Creeping about like a Triton imp,To find the haunts of the crab and shrimp.He clings, with none to guide or help,To the furthest ridge of slippery kelp;And his bold heart glows while he stands and mocksThe seamew’s cry on the jutting rocks.