In each mind, even the most candid,
there are forests, where needled haze overshadows
the slippery duff and patches of snow long-frozen,
or else where mangroves, proliferant, vine-entwisted,
loom over warm mud that slowly bubbles.
In these forests there live certain events, shards
of memory, scraps of once-heard lore, intimations
once familiar - some painful, shameful, some
drably or laughable inconsequent, others
thoughts that the thinker
could never hold fast and begin to tell.
And some - a few - that are noble, tender,
and so complete in themselves, they had
no need of saying.
There they dwell,
no sky above them, resting
like dragonflies on the dense air, or nested
on inaccessible twigs.
It is right that there are these secrets
(even the weightless ones have perhaps
some part to play in the unperceiveable whole)
and these forests; privacies
and the deep terrain to receive them.
Right that they rise at times into our ken,
and are acknowledged.
- Denise Levertov
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