How often do the leaves speak, Rustling in the shimmers of light, Filling quiet spaces like laughter, Reminded of warmth when the sunlight finds, All the shadows bathed in gold? I wander through the brambles, Where forgotten tales lie heavy, Waiting for space and time to unfold, While butterflies flit from bloom to bloom, Painted with the brush of fall, When nature wraps her arms tight, In the vibrant hues of harvest. This, the heart of living, The wisdom found in the whisper of winds; Once, I knew the trees were my refuge.

• Anne Sexton