If I should fall in the forest,
would the trees hear me hit the ground?
Beneath their zen indifference,
am I a man dreaming of trees
or a tree dreaming about men?
And when a leaf falls from a branch,
does it start a breeze whose blowing
grows to form a tropical storm?
I find no deep philosophy
in the whisper of foliage,
in dark wisdom of the wild wood.
Blood fills my veins, not chlorophyll.
The green canopy seeks to cool
my heart with centuries of calm,
but I break the ancient silence
with a chain saw and cut it down.