As If

A moment of res­o­lu­tion,
I screamed down into the hol­low
and an answer came,
reflect­ing the white birch blind­ing
the bark a love let­ter,
still embrac­ing inti­mate, that tree
of the unre­quited,
the dis­creet grain lingers unweary­ingly
in a time and space,
the wind’s breath guis­ing as its alter ego
metaphoric, aloft ascended there­upon,
indi­vid­ual and free to rage

to what pon­ders causal­ity,
a des­ti­na­tion through branches
where who we are,
be the mask worn as a leaf
rea­son in its arms falls waft­ing,
sibylline the sea­sons
encir­cle as love burns into the morn,
first light a vision always car­ries
out of dark­ness as a star just con­ceived,
its fire intend­ing only to nur­ture
that which longs to grow,
to touch the clouds, to be,

to one day die,
owing to the ani­mate, it lives and breathes
eyes are win­dows, I know,
of which trees have thou­sands, green
eyes are the view,
to tak­ing you in as rays caught ema­nat­ing
that entrap the mem­ory,
as a heart frees it in turn again and again
to feel soft sunlight’s lips,
del­i­cately empha­siz­ing words
as if being there, man­i­fested,
its roots shud­der­ing once more.













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