A falling redwood makes no sound
When crashing unseen to the ground.
No noise disturbs the sylvan peace
No birds unsettle, no deer flees.
While in its box the cat is dead,
And yet it rears its furry head
Awaiting watchers come to see
If it’s to be, or not to be.
The poem, likewise, dormant lies
Till activated by the eyes.
And who knows what entrancing things
The disregarded poet sings?
Originally posted on Making Light