Their voices rang
through the winter trees:
they were speaking and yet it seemed they sang,
the trunks a hall of victory.
And what is that and where?
Though we come to it rarely,
the sense of all that we might be
conjures the place from air.
Is it the mind, then?
It is the mind received,
assumed into a season
forestial in the absence of all leaves.
Their voices rang
through the winter trees and time
catching the cadence of that song
forgot itself in them.
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