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By Muninn's Kiss
Wind rushing,
A mighty roar,
But silent as the grave.
No sound itself,
No sight itself,
Only movement.
But Aspen leaves,
And Aspen groves,
Moving, rustling,
Whispering, talking.
Each leaf a single voice,
Each branch a quiet chorus,
Each tree a mighty legion.
The grove a roaring,
Rushing, soaring,
Loud yet stilling,
Calm and peace.
Constant movement,
Loud but softly,
The Aspens lull me,
To my rest.
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