The Watchtower

nonetheless, sir. You must be a poet, to have conjured up ideas such as leaves talking. What sort of poems do you write?”
    Jean Robin cocked his head to one side and eyed Will as if the species of a poet could be determined in the same way as a flower’s, with careful observation and knowledge.
    “Sonnets,” Will replied emphatically. He felt suddenly that this conversation was his most joyous moment in Paris since arriving, though he knew that wasn’t saying much. He leaned back, exhaled a deep breath. The fresh, blue midday sky inspired him. For the briefest of instants he felt free of his burdens. He sat upright again on the bench with relief.
    “Write me a poem then, sonneteer,” Jean Robin requested. “A poem that tells me where I came from.”
    Will found himself reciting a sonnet he’d neither written nor read. To his regret, he did not write it down, for afterward he could only recall fragments of it. The recitation itself was exhilarating. The poem seemed to come from a deep, quiet place, deeper than earth, quieter than light:
    I see, one day, you’ll live within a tree,
    your skin turned bark, your fingers slender leaves,
    your arms thick roots and branches. Wind believes,
    Will continued, as crowns shimmered in a quickening breeze,
    that you and woods, already now, are one. I do not flee
    from such a merge of leaf and skin, a mystery
    like why the moon is smaller than the sun,
    or what was here the day the earth began,
    or love that brings one immortality.
    Jean Robin, you’re well-blown here now by wind—
    a deeper sort than that caressing night—
    from leaf-fringed dreams, and great my pleasure to
    meet you, become a sturdy lifelong friend;
    I do not know just when my vigil ends,
    but Marguerite is nigh! Your sign is true!
    Will’s mouth hung open after the last two lines because he had no idea what their logic was—how Jean Robin could be a sign of Marguerite’s nearness—and expressing such optimism unnerved him; nothing was surer to jinx any hope for her than prematurely celebrating her return. But then Jean Robin’s applause for the poem raised his spirits, and Will saw nearby branches were moving up and down in approbation, too, leaves quivering, maybe even the sun exhaling some extra light.
    His pain over Marguerite was hardly forgotten, but for an instant peace was in his heart.
    Jean Robin began to laugh while clapping, to appearances with joy and not mockery, a sound with a flute of music added to its leafery. The most singular laugh Will had ever heard.
    “I too have my ‘love that brings one immortality,’” Jean Robin said when he’d quieted down. He gazed with fondness again at the sapling, and for a moment Will saw tears glistening in his eyes. “All of my flowers, shrubs, and trees are precious to me, this one most of all. Robinia and its descendants, and their descendants, will live on far longer than I can. But I, their seeder, will live on through them.” He fell silent, as if his store of eloquence were spent, and Will saw the wind pick up in the trees, as if that were where Jean Robin’s breath had gone.
    Will had to agree with him. “You are so right, sir, about living on that way, though it’s not the sort of immortality I seek. And I don’t seek mine for immortality’s sake, but only because I have had the odd fortune to fall in love with an immortal and want to always be by her side. But you are of the trees and their everlastingness. That is why your words flutter to me like leaves. That is why your head reminds me of the bulb of a flower,” he added hesitantly, worried Jean Robin could be offended. But Jean Robin grinned as if pleased with Will’s metaphor. “You have the spirit of the trees in you. And no doubt they have your spirit in them as well!”
    “As, no doubt, does the woman of whom you spoke in your sonnet have your spirit in her! Might it be that your Marguerite … no, I shouldn’t ask. It would be too intrusive of me…”
    “No, go ahead. Ask!”
    “Well … ahem … I happen to have a few acquaintances here in Paris who … ahem … enjoy the benefits of immortality. They are of the genus fée, what you English call fairies. Is your Marguerite one of them?”
    “Yes!” Will exclaimed, astounded. Perhaps this strange little man was an emissary sent to lead him to Marguerite. “Yes, she is. You say you know others? Perhaps my Marguerite will be with them. Could you direct me to them?”
    Jean Robin nodded his bulbous