You give the appearance of listening

To my thoughts, o trees,

Bent over the road I am walking

On a late summer evening

When every one of you is a steep staircase

The night is descending.

The leaves like my mother’s lips

Forever trembling, unable to decide,

For there’s a bit of wind,

And it’s like hearing voices,

Or a mouth full of muffled laughter,

A huge dark mouth we can all fit in

Suddenly covered by a hand.

Everything quiet. Light

Of some other evening strolling ahead,

Long-ago evening of long dresses,

Pointy shoes, silver cigarette cases.

Happy heart, what heavy steps you take

As you hurry after them in the thickening shadows.

The sky above still blue.

The nightbirds like children

Who won’t come to dinner.

Lost children singing to themselves.