Always naming:
the tree, the bird in flight,
the reddish boulder the stream
runs over green, and the fish
in white smoke when darkness
falls over the woods.

Signs, colors, it’s a game—
I’m doubtful—
it may not end fairly.

And who teaches me
what I forgot: the stones’ sleep, 
the sleep of birds in flight, 
the trees’ sleep—does their speech
go on in the dark?

If there were a God
and he had a body 
and could call me, I would
walk around, I would
wait a while.