In our belligerence we reject
the Apache medicine man
and the Shinto monk of old Japan
who assign life to rocks and rills,
and mountains and hills, and clouds,
and the flashing lightning, too, and
speak to their dishes and pots,
thanking them for their services.

We say it is nothing
but superstition and myth,
a waste of time, a poetic madness.

Yet I find myself - my very self -
talking to the trees. And as for flowers,
I cannot pass by those blushing ladies
without a nod,
and, for the dew-covered ones,
a crimson sigh.
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Volume 2, Issue 4, Posted 9:17 AM, 02.17.2010