I bow to bones
that spend their lives
in racks
of silent bend and sway.
Impossible sticks intent
upon adherence to the ground.
Under skin and over heart
my veins pump oxygen
and make my acorns fall
to winds of lust.
I, so thin of bark,
cling precipitously
not to the earth
but to abstract thought.
Foolish tree.
Foolish me.
Hint: I'm the tree and it is me
Comments
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"I bow to bones
that spend their lives
in racks
of silent bend and sway."
THIS, and "winds of lust" are awesome. I had to tell you that. I'm rather braindead right now in terms of criticism, but if I do think of something critical to say when I'm less exhausted, I'll come back and say it.
For now, great job. Tree/garden/vine poetry and imagery are the best.
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