A Voice

A voice comes from the wind
that sings into the trees,
or whistles softly through the reeds.
Telling tales of an ancient,
forgotten world, I lift my eyes
up to the green, and wonder
which girl of the past wandered away
through the whispering grass?
Which branch holds her laughter?
I listen closely now—
abiding in the miracle of the sea,
in the need to be still
while the waves race from the shore.

• Mary Oliver