In the thick of the trees, new life twists through crags. The roots stretch in secret like veins toward the liquid center.

Moonlight dances on the water, resting its well-weathered stones. I sink like a mist under the branches, finding songs that have never been sung.

All the measures pulled from silence, yet I speak not of absence, but of presence, of weathered smiles dancing atop the warmest of memories.

Each wind bluster apart — to mold the branches thinner, each petal making promises, knowing beauty cannot help but emerge from the roughest overgrowth.

• Muriel Rukeyser