A Solemn Soul

I have to tell some solemn soul
But who is the one to be told?
A tree is set inground too deep
And lacking caution I may trip
On all the upturned roots that creep
Or become wet when rains will drip.
A whipping wind is fairweather
And so often a cold mistress
For which no earthly tether
Can control or try to oppress.
The river rolls too slow to think
To act, respond, to offer drink
Or serve a purpose past its own
It gives no solace, crawls on by
And though may comfort when alone,
With company, is occupied.
The animals take to their chatter,
Sharing voices, hugging complaints
And talk of things that little matter:
I avoid them, and don't acquaint.
Above them is the long-gone sun:
Too far removed, too far devoid,
And so unlike, to be annoyed
With all the vital knots I have undone.

I fear not that I have not found
A solemn soul within my life
But that the solemn soul that I
Have found will not communicate
In some return: I wish to talk
This kindred spirit of itself -
For in my eyes, to be with one
In harmony's to never have
To turn to any other.

May 22, 26