When a Tree Dreams

 

it is of eggs—
robin’s, dove’s—
the gentle cradling,
the perfect fit
of bluestem straw,
alder sprig, mud, 
down, hair, in its wind-
strong cup of sky-
reaching branches. 

it is of pages—
pages, papers,
sheaves of books,
language unlocked
fiber by fiber,
leaves unfolding,
stories told
in the turning,
swelling rings.

it is of pining—
desire, a delicate
grieving, a mournful
rustling, a restless
resignation and
the puzzlement—
the twig-thin

tug between this world

and the next.