Nature is the best poet I know. Whoever moves her hand and voice is more than any of the confined minds of man can muster. An acorn's sharp impact with the ground is such a precise period. The wind sifting through chimes of foliage sings the romantic melodic ruminations on the great question 'why?'. The sky, at any particular is the mood of the piece and the crickets comment with effortless cadence. A sudden swift move or a flock of birds give climax to the lyric in unexpected revelation. When nature talks about death, it is so raw and exposed, void of dreary metaphor. Just the presentation of mortality in the flesh, as it is, vicious and weak. When she speaks of birth, the feigned respect that many offer to life is shamed by her elegance and simplicity. On love, a sunbeam giving refuge to a weary doe, or two doves following each other over a thousand miles, or the gentle release of a flower's petals speak, in words not uttered, volumes over the blind grasping of human hands.
Any theme or inquiry, insight or profundity, she has sang first and cleanest.