If the trees speak, they would tell of the winds before the storm, before the deep winter, before the earth fell to sleep.

I ask the stones, are you happy? And if you are still, you will answer over the ice of your own shadow.

What is the path between life and death if the stones are speaking? How does a leaf whisper? The mountains watch.

Oh, let me be a tree, it will sing in the rain, in this wilderness of awakening.

Let me see the darkening of the bird in the sky. Let me hear your answers, you who pulse with life.

The air calls me in the evening. Mother, I will return to the green!

• Muriel Rukeyser