It’s that I feel See the mist by the oak trees turning blue down the road there’s something left unsaid, in the distance past these winter trees. and sometimes I feel Their limbs are wood of leaves. I’m sad enough to say See the wind playing in the mist, and the trees lifting up their limbs. I would happily see my naiveté pass by lightly with his frown, and say These words should be an edge to break a frozen sea. within us we may all have a frozen blue sea to be broken, and See what mist the trees live for along the blue roadway may it be true, and not necessarily so, if I say I love the oak trees.

December 1972