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.