Give me a thing that says nothing.
The wind, for instance,
A wisdom that comes from ten thousand miles to the west.
The trees, for instance, stenographers
Of every sentence it isn’t able to utter.
The grass that assembles them all
in its green pages.
The dirt that substracts each word, syllable after syllable,
Into its dark book, and keeps them there
In ignorance, a blessed ignorance we’ll come to know,
A radiant cloud at our mouths,
breath like no other.
—Charles Wright, from “26” in Littlefoot: A Poem