The flowers hold their heads high, taking the light from their own webs, do the petals of a dreaming tree sink for the sounds of the sea? How tenderly dream the tree might rest caught in thicket of life and left, against the current, the wind breaks over waters, finding an answer.

With silence as soft as the spring— a world, a cluster of thoughts that spin, weaving through the night now, beneath the moon—I know the green will reclaim our hands.

And the hands of the earth reshape the silence of white on their bodies, like us, they hold onto the dark, yearn to touch light as well.

• Muriel Rukeyser