Trees
the feel of wood grains the forehead
Trees
In writing about trees
the hand
should burst a thousand leaves
on the page
or spread in silhouette
the curled branches
between words
so that as we read
the white hollows between words
can be the wind
or in certain poems, stillness
so that as eyes
descend the page, smoke rises
straight
toward heaven
as the lines descend down
to the roots
the page is straining
so that the lower square of paper
seethes with immensity
unable to be moved, only tugged
or hurled massively over
when the page turns
when the hand does touch
the paper
the feeling of age
is immediate
the feel of wood
grains the forehead
or curves the back
like mountain ash
tenacious
between stones
by the last line
we sink our weight
through dreams of earth
holding the ground for a hundred
years of time
unable to forget
a promise with the land
to breathe
and with our arms
hold heaven close to earth.
-from Songs for Coming Home
This one is different for you, I think. There is a playful craft here that almost winks as it carries its weight. Still, I found myself wanting to read the next line, “And when we write of men…”
I really like this poem. I love physical tree presentations that come with the lines ie ‘hurled over the page’.
Or: We meet the tree in the progress of the poem. I missed a bird or a nest or a possum but then we had leaves many, trunk roots and age.
I just had a massage so I can’t do it justice… she’s a beauty! I love trees too.🤎💚💚💚