Walk from a meadow
edged with bay trees and madrones,
past mighty oaks,
and, finally,
into the heart of the redwoods.

Stand on a floor carpeted
with age-old needles,
beside stone outcroppings
covered in moss,
and listen.

A shout here could be a whisper,
but who would know?

Who would dare to speak
above a whisper,
in a land that whispers
in a voice heard by poets?

A land that has heard poets speak,
heard poets write of that whisper,
that voice that says,

“A millennium could pass,
with no sign of all who pass through here,
if only they would see this world
through the eyes of a poet.”

And who could not be a poet in that world?