Sonnet #27

However much we love to talk of history

It is a mythical irrelevance to birds and trees
What memory in wood rings tell the story
Of growth or not, and birdsongs’ creed
Is not to build the blocks of time but stand
and be still on a moving branch, blustering
Where none may know their silent end
And before it comes, all songs mustering
All flowers, all blooms, all seeds hurled to ground
What use history when it can not tell the tale
Of where the eels go up the river, down
Why the salmon remember, leap and fail
When our cameras turns to sky and see the starlight
A trillion suns, all glittering down upon our fights

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