Wind-argued linden.
we wait for one another
patient as Asia.

I told her in a letter:
you have as many arms,
as many hands
as you need, as long as you
have a tool for each one
to hold, to wield.

She didn’t answer,
she was thinking of those gods
in India with so many arms,
she thought I was calling her a god.
Or maybe treating her like a kid.

But the tree understood—
I could hear the wind in the leaves
explaining what I meant,
could hear the long bone of the trunk
assenting. Asserting.

I wrote again,
this time carrying on
about roses and sea birds,
piano lessons when I was eight,
the mountain tunnel through the Vosges.

This time she understood,
wrote: Tell me with things,
tell me with places,
don’t tell me what you think you know.

When I read her letter,
I felt bitter, they love
things more than they love me
I thought, natural enough.

But then the tree complained,
and I heard the leaves explaining:
sayings yes and saying no
are just saying, just saying,
her silence might be wiser
than her answer but how
would either of you ever know?

The leaves of the linden
are shaped like hearts
for good reasons. Every day
I get to hear their quick
sustained analysis
of the human situation,
this puzzled man
standing under their branches.

                                                   25 August 2020