Here's a poem called "The Versatile Historian."
I came through autumn forest.
Needing wind that needed fire.
Sun on larch, fir.
The ponderosa told me to forget the friends I needed years ago.
Sky is all the rage, in countries steeped in lore.
The troubled Indians wise within their graves.
I sang of trouble to the north.
Sleeping weasels robed my song of real words.
Everywhere rhythm raged.
Sun beneath my feet, I became the statue needing friends
and wind that needed fire.
Mountains to bang against.