On Looking for Models, by Alan Dugan

The trees in time
have something else to do
besides their treeing. What is it.
I’m a starving to death
man myself, and thirsty, thirsty
by their fountains but I cannot drink
their mud and sunlight to be whole.
I do not understand these presences
that drink for months
in the dirt, eat light,
and then fast dry in the cold.
They stand it out somehow,
and how, the Botanists will tell me.
It is the “something else” that bothers
me, so I often go back to the forests.

No Word, by Kenneth Rexroth

The trees hang silent
In the heat . . . . .

 

          Undo your heart
          Tell me your thoughts
          What you were
          And what you are . . . . .

 

                     Like bells no one
                     Has ever rung.