In little green

sketches
born

from its cinnamon

savored stems,
the tree

tears its sails
out into the open

sky,
this soil where

the captured thoughts
–and all that I

have
bristle still

and leak away,
up

through the holes

in its elfin
fabric…
In little green

soles
blown

from its cinnamon

savored stems,
the tree, reaching out

to be heard,
wildly pounds

the azure above
shaking off

shards of sunshine
down onto my skin…
&

the captured thoughts
–and all that I

have
bristle still

and leak away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

______________

Photo: Doug BRYANT