No one cares about the word soughing
or that the wind requires a tree,
possibly a spruce,
to continually sow the seed
of this dying expression.
When astonishment is bled from language
the relation we’ve tried to describe
Day in now, day out, we rise
into the clockwork of habit,
in absence of forethought,
with the ease of slipping into shift or shirt,
whilst the furnace of our requirements
is tirelessly stoked and fed
with obligations we fail to own.
The richness of speaking
is conjured from a dense simplicity,
but we have left such intimacies,
running instead with rootless functions,
and the words that we have forgotten
leave us without a trace,
like wind without trees to sough in.
(c) Seth Grube