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She's a great gray tree at night whose sap oozes youth. Her limbs branch out to hold tire swings and to scare that which scares easily, but a warm blood flows, medicinal.
A spoonful is all it takes; one teaspoon one tap on the treetrunk one sand dollar that would crumble in a human hand one pomegranate.
And when the morning comes while some plants bloom and bend she creaks, crawling out of bed with a tired half-yawn half-smile, the fabric of her shorts revealing...the bark, that perspires,
that I touched to find my way when I felt I feel I've found where I want and don't need to go further;
An owl that lives on her shoulder told a mouse in my house that she didn't mind when I sat in the shade of her great gray lap; when I sang bad she dropped acorns--they're on my floor--I trip on them.
And on the Sabbath day, I place banana and orange peels at her feet. I let her sap drip on the bread which is the body of our lord, EMOTION, washing it down with whatever liquid she will pass from her mouth to mine,
And though I look silly getting intimate with a tree, I worry not.
I dump rain on her hair and the rain rolls down her hips and over her rear, the owl hoots, I cannot speak to express, the dread I feel at winter's fast approach