Tonight outside the plate glass
each insect is made of a long tube of wood,
as if the insect had become a tree
to give the tree a voice.
And these pink spatters,
these crumbled parlor doilies,
these milkweed blossoms
fade as if antique,
and the milkweed does not report on the condition of its leaves,
the height of its flowers,
its life without bureaucracy,
nor does the lilac filtering the mentholated air,
or the bee drowsing on the sill
after straining through the broken window screen
like Rilke wheedling his way into a palace.
Or the brook that runs by the cabin
talking nonsense.
Or the willow that slouches as if it were in a classroom
where the teacher bores it.
So forgive me please already.
I am sorry for speaking for nature.
But it was asking for it.
from The New Yorker