In the grey light of imminent rain
a tree's in motion at my window:
All day the elm was sinking into me
each branch each leaf
a "colored music in the mind"
continually heard yet never wearied of.

How is it there is, suddenly, so much time
to dwell on the tough, holdfast roots
and leafy crown, its glide and sway,
pause and return, the flow and fall
of every living thing? The self,
transparent and wispy as a breath,
follows the bright green melody
in all its branchings through the lacy web.

Image of God as infinitely small.
The present moment infinitely

Vibration near the speed of light.
What subtle intercourse, exchange
of subangelic particles, what feast
then gave me back my self?

Immortal tree—oh angel of this place,
the music was myself until it ceased..