Beneath the old oak,
I whispered to the ground, A sigh of the earth
Giving rise to blades of crabgrass, The last tethers of day
Weave into dreams.
Every shadow, a layer, Every grove, a shadow,
Underneath the leaf canopy, Patterns of where the sun fell, With dripping honey and
Coldspring air.
We gather together,
Where echoes sing, where
The world becomes softer,
The laughing stream runs under— With forgotten stories to lead, Echoes of life so close.

• Margaret Atwood