idle languages

The trees here speak English
and the wind blows down from Canada
with a certain hissing French,
but the rain, oh, the rain,
is sounding out in Seneca
and the rivers burble at their mouth
in – Is that Korean? Finnish?
I don’t know, I couldn’t know,
but maybe God is whispering tonight
if I could only listen,
maybe if I could hear all the parts of speech
the work of translation could begin

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