Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Her Little Birch Tree (poem, please comment)

Yellow maple leaves are wet and brown.

earth sick, earth thick,

with rotting leaves.


A birch shines out of the decay,

brown skin uncurling to silvery white.


She planted it years ago and loves it.

Gently she peels the thin brown bark,

revealing, stroking the birch naked limbs,

surprisingly warm and breathing

through its many mouths.


She feels it sway rhythmically in the wind,

the wind in its branches through her fingers.


She listens to the whispering stories

in the sloughed off tatters of the year falling away.


There was one tree.

whose skin glowed silver and rosy dawn.


It was her serpent in her arms.

and when they kissed

she delighted in its tongue not forked.


Song of Songs in love they played,

writhing and jiving in the sun and wind.

till the glowing sunset when she eats

the last, sharp

red rowan fruits

and he wraps her, blushing, in his silver bark.


There was one tree.

A most feminine of trees.


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