Pleasant and warm
sun on the bare arm,
yes, and yes,
the fat baby legs
rapelling off the mother's stomach,
the hair finer than new grass.
So many growing things
in the spring of the eye.
Chilled senses crave
the surprise of green
swelling the dead stalks,
the halo of trees awaking.
We read the message wrong.
We are not vines.
Our eyes are not buds
that shrivel here and push out there.
When we are cut back
that will be it.
I think we will know nothing of the busy earth.
We are not growing things.
We must make do,
speak the leaves we lack
dream forests and raise parapets
that may stand out of nature.
If this tree has a gift,
it is always to be revealed.
If this tree has a meaning,
it is what I have given it.
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