Listening To The Arias Of The Leaves

"Evening--new moon--snow hard crackling and squealing under my rubber boots.  The dark pines over the hermitage.  The graceful black fans and branches of the tall oaks between my field and the monastery.  I said Compline and looked at the cold valley and tasted its peace.  Who is entitled to such peace?  I don't know.  But I would be foolish to leave it for no reason."
                                                                                                          Thomas Merton Journal VII
                                                                                                           

                                                       
                                      Late Winter Breeze Through Oak Trees


                                       These old leaves stun and sound
                                            a gently rolling creek
                                               in their congregation’s susurrations
                                                   over my lingering.

                                        These tethered swaying
                                            were urgent once
                                               and fierce in their appetites
                                                  for starlight;

                                        now, dangling parchments
                                           sounding water arias--
                                               ornaments
                                                   of what become

                                           of the multitudinous,
                                               seemingly discarded
                                                    unnecessary.