How like a poem
or a painting
a tree is. The shake
of the wind through
the little worlds,
how they never stop
moving. Watch a leaf
(or coral)
for an hour and you’ll
swear you see blood
or itches, waves goodbye
or wringing of hands.
The veins protrude
like distorsio ribs,
prickles on a cockle.
For a day only then and you’ll
wake up underneath,
a hermit devoted to ever-
shuffling leaves,
a bird for proportion
between your legs,
the sky or the light
on a troubled pond
for pointing the way
as you sink beneath
and wonder
what happened.
How did the red leaves
swallow you whole?
