It is to be hoped that a treewill let its leaves rotinto earth as nourishment;I am searchingfor the name of my daughter,a piece of ribbonI found hanging on the door-hedge—I stare long until I hearher voice risingfrom the knotted edges of the silk.And I enter into a conversationlike a race-horse released into fire.The ribbon stuffedwith all her words, frothinglike a burning pieceof a butterfly’s wing, greetedwith water baubles—I mean itin contrast of the disrobingsilence of quenching.The redwood flower un-wiltsinto a new fragrance, a smelllike the moon commonto every night that visits,clatters along all the cranniesof an unforgettable half-sideof a dark day—wideninginto newer edges,the willow that fallsinto the ears of God, a thrushhousing its bodyinside its own wet wings.Do you not see, child?Once your songs endureinside my bones,they will consume the loneliness,yours and mine.