There is a place you can go

where you are quiet,

a place of water and the light

​

on the water. Trees are there,

leaves, and the light

on the leaves are moved by air.

​

Birds, singing, move

among leaves, in leaf shadow.

After many years you have come

​

to no thought of these,

but they are themselves

your thoughts. There seems to be

​

little to say, less and less.

Here they are. Here you are.

Here as though gone.

​

None of us stays, but in the hush

where each leaf in the speech

of leaves is a sufficient syllable 

​

the passing light finds out

surpassing freedom of it's way.

​

~ Wendell Berry

​

​