Come, let us talk of Nature, you and I,
Shall it be yours or mine?
Or shall it be the one that stretches
Outside the window to Infinity?
Or that silent one within
That has no name nor address-
Shall we talk of rains that fall
Cutting runnels in one’s cheek?
Or shall we talk of the drought
That leaves a parched soul behind?
Or floods that can inundate
The plains of life with love?
The deserts of gravel and stunted shrubs
Of gritty sand of sorrow in one’s eyes,
That refuses to be rubbed or washed away?
Or the weathering of the winds
That blow in all the change,
Transforming faces that once smiled
Into the lines of pain?
Or gentling the ferocity of anger
Into tenderness mild?
Shall we talk of blades of grass,
Of flowers of many hues,
Or yet again of a hundred greens
That meet the daily eye
On every tree unnoticed?
Or the fire in the earth, so quiet
We forget its very being,
Till some final fault allows
The molten flames to erupt?
Of lakes of tranquillity that bare
The stillness of the soul?
Of rivulets, streams, meandering rivers
Converted into conversations?
Is there an end to nature here,
To your definitions and mine?
Is there no end to its sanctity-
And to your violations and mine?