Surely something better to do than that.
[LAUGHTER]
Just recall--
[AUDIO OUT]
Since we're all here, enjoying the music,
trying to have a good time, it's called Talking To Myself.
I think I'll pursue the theme of the poet reflecting
on the writing of poetry in the various phases
that I have had to face.
I won't explain this poem to you.
I'll just read it.
About my being a poet, the trees certainly
haven't expressed an interest.
Standing at a distance from me, I'd expect at least a
try to learn something new besides growing their leaves,
which by now is old stuff.
And anyway, it's done by so many others.
The poet knows whereof he writes and is
the prophet of the now and the future it has been said.
Wouldn't these trees want to know
what they'll be doing in 100 years as I can tell them.
None even try, and I can tell them what they look like,
and how they stand, and what's their name, and where they are,
and what they actually do in summer and in the winter.
Deaf, dumb, and happy as they are, not happy, simply
willing to go on as always, not even willing, just doing
what comes naturally.
It's baffling, and I'm lonely writing
this unimportant to them and to myself perhaps.
A tree of just another kind.