In the forest where no one can hear,
by Raynette Eitel
the proverbial tree falls.
Sound waves like whispers waft
across the sky and vanish.
There is no life here, save those
producing a measure of chlorophyll.
No heartbeats, no breaths, no songs
no laughter, no love.
And the beauty is pristine, could you
but see it. And the oxygen abundant,
the inspiration without end;
Yet the depth holds nothing.
This is deep time.
This is no time, no clocks,
no ticking, no alarms,
no sleep. No dreams.
And years later when one learns
About the time called “deep, ”
there will be fascination
as there is with any idea that is new
And people will reach for it, to grasp it
in eager hands,
and others will set it to music
of shamans, of gypsies, of clergy.
And still others will dream of it
and paint it, and study it under a
microscope or collect it like moon rocks.
But they will discover age without people,
places without dreams,
without touching another
and then they will shake their heads
and move on to things of more importance.