My Tree Alone
Was I ever not sitting by this grand tree?
My back lies against trunk of brown so tall,
a pillar of bark, woody axis that dwarfs this hall
formed by gnarly fingers puffed into canopy green.
Blossom, bud and lithe leaf poke into sky
as antennae, the trunk as rod to lightning bolt,
attracting through fibril every thought
wood weathered into wise rings, vintage years gone by.
If you could ever take the earth by its handle,
you would grab it by the trunk of this tree,
shaking vigorously, your fingers pulling at twig and leaves.
Magnificent roots quake along every fault and open span.
Eight Diagrams 