Isolato

Deep is his innermost thought,
deep as a midsummer wood,
not cool in the shade, not hot,
covered with a blue-green hood,
undisturbed by bird twaddling
and insects that buzz and bite;
the shade is but soft swaddling
to soothe the waning daylight.

Repose is not oft chosen,
but comes like the eventide,
soaked with shadows—it flows in
to lull the bustle inside:
the chipmunks and the songbirds,
the bees all abuzz, a breeze
whispering some headstrong words
with the speech of leaf-tongued trees.

Becalmed be the petty leaves
erstwhile aflutter with talk,
asleep be the worm that reaves
within root and stem and stalk;
begone, that foul white-rot ring,
begone, those fecund wasp’s galls,
begone, the ant’s acid sting,
begone, the termite queen’s thralls.

His thought is a wood bestilled,
shaded by its own enclave
of thoughtless oak, the air filled
with the silence of the grave;
it is a glade domed in shade
against a life’s needless noise,
a refuge dome wherein fade
echoes and suchlike envoys.

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