In four acts

Atto Primo

When a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound?
if there’s no ear to take it in, and not a soul around.
Is there any ruckus when the tallest branches hit.
Frankly, dear, I have to say, I just don’t give a shit.

Instead there is another way my wondering mind is leaning.
What I really want to know is does it have a meaning?
I’m sure it does to some poor owl whose home the tree destroys
But to someone half a mile away, it’s simply background noise.

Now, Trees are not my main concern, as much as I love birds,
But here’s what keeps me up, some nights: my desperate, needy words.
my thoughts disgorged on every page, and I don’t have much choice.
It seems from deep inside of me they want to have a voice.

And since this voice is my wracked soul, they cry out to be heard.
And seek a willing audience to love them word for word.
Sometimes the way they nag me, till I’m sleepless, is a curse.
They want to tell their story in some tortured metered verse.

And every bit of simile or metaphor or rhyme
Demand to have that fret upon the stage in their own time.
Some day, they will stop asking to assure them they are good.
And then, they’ll be content to fall in silence in the wood

Atto Secondo

If a tree falls in the woods, and no one’s there to hear it, does it make a sound?
Yes. Duh.

Atto Terzo

If a tree falls in the woods, and we are not really hearing it, does it make a sound?
It sounds like the tear, falling from my cheek, that you didn’t see.
It sounds like the cat purring in that extra 2 inches between us in the bed, that we don’t discuss.
It is the sound of that repeated slam of the door, that we refuse to acknowledge.
It is that sigh of “here we go again.”

It makes the sound of that constant debate between us as we use our theories and grand abstractions to pretend we are addressing the fundamental sound of this splinter between us, but ultimately, we are only arguing the semantics of what it means to listen.

Atto Quarto

If a tree falls in the woods does it make a sound?
The towering oak once proud and tall, with auburn mantle crowned.
And in its budding prime, it broadly spread its springtime pollen,
How sad it feels to see the way the mighty tree has fallen.

But does this toppling really make a sound upon this stage?
It does, he says, as he zips up, “it happens to guys your age.”

Fini