A list of sorts for NaPoWriMo.
There are so many ways to look at trees:
as they wave in a gale with spindle fingers,
clawing the wind for a grip of her tressed hair,
or stand still, posed in new tender green scarves
of blossom shed,
or later, full and lush with leaf,
that hides sweet singers and wraiths of deer.
I can listen to the rattle of dry oak leaves that refuse to fall,
gnarled and cantankerous, chattering like false teeth,
or the silken ripple of summer song,
piped along sappy veins and the warm feathered blood of blackbirds.
I can count the shadow dapples on the grass or the knobs of buds,
break off dead wood with regret and compassion,
and watch pink-green shoots appear.
I can touch bark, smooth or rugged,
deep carved like old churches or the beams of longhouses,
or peeled by antler-rubbing and hare-chewing,
smell the dusty, grainy beetlings of chewing insects,
the scented, floral breath of new life imposing.
There are so many ways to look at trees,
an ocean of green waves heaving,
embodied wind-tide rising,
hands beseeching, arms enfolding, cradling,
but the best way of all
is to lean back against a trunk
and, looking up into the living vaulting,
forgetting the anchor of heavy limbs and feet of clay,
soar with birds and flying squirrels,
cathedral-dwellers, in awe of nothing.