The sky folds into itself slowly,
a mirror, a vast unbroken fact.
We watch it, unchanged, waiting still,
as if its shape could whisper more.
The trees lean, their shadows widening,
unmoved by what we wish was true.
Their roots press deep, knowing nothing
of choice, nothing of why they hold.
Can we make ought from what is seen?
The room stays quiet, the air unbent.
Among these objects, sure of nothing,
we sift the silence for its demand.
But the stars fall into their own pattern,
careless of the reasons we impose,
and the sea moves, not out of will,
but the pull that has no need of us.