not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary, or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance &comfort.
Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays carp &whistle all day in the branches, without the push of the wind.
But to tell the truth after a while I`m pale with longing for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen &you can`t keep me from the woods, from the tonnage of their shoulders, &their shining green hair.
Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a little sunshine, a little rain.
Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from one boot to another -- why don`t you get going?
For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.
&to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don`t want to sell my life for money, I don`t even want to come in out of the rain."