In the Forest of Myself

In the forest of myself
There grow a wealth of trees.
Four varieties there are,
Four fruits and, so, four leaves.
And so, I walk, my hunger in my hands,
And pick the ones that please.

In a secret grove
There grow some certain trees,
Some tall,
Some small,
But all entwining limbs and blending leaves,
Chaffing gently in the evening breeze.

And in a shaded nook
There grows a noonday tree,
Encircled by a foaming book,
Its jaded roots in soiled inconstancy.

And by the spring-fed pond,
There grows a lonely tree,
Its inward deliquescing branches fond
Of kissing ripples on the water's effigy,
Reflected yet refracted in the self-found sea
Of self's fidelity.

And last, upon a hillside,
Grows a straight and solemn tree,
Staring nightly at the stars, I hear it chide
Itself for their remote, imagined, dim simplicity.

A forest gives of pleasure.
A forest gives of pain.
But only do I feel disquiet
When October's mottled measure
Pulses to the falling leaves' refrain.

- Sitaram (written Monday October 18, 1965 10:00-10:30p.m.)