His plants are alive. They shelter
his head where he sits each
dawn. They are his friends.
They practice the speech of silence.
Sometimes they move when
no one sees. Green knowledge
is very old. HIs cells write
this story on syllables of breath.
The day sails forth at flood-tide.
Plants stand at windows
to record the red sun-ocean.
Night waves a black flag and
they never fail to sleep.
They surely must dream.
I wonder what they dream about, being human? Love it, Mr. Mann.
Stunning, John! This poem passed the ultimate test–that of when the listener’s mind is emptied of its racket and the only thing left is the resonance of the poem. This is known as the “post-orgasmic” test. 🙂 Yes Yes Yes!