Saturday
April 28, 2012
Okay, I got into a bit of a grove on a poem yesterday and spent this morning (and afternoon) trying to perfect it. I never know until maybe a week later whether I was successful or not.
TREE
GIRL
She
thinks she’s a tree
standing
in the parking lot,
arms
stretched out towards
the
moon, dressed in the fragile
bark
she was born in.
The
birds are confused. They’ve
never
known a tree to breathe
and
hum old Joni Mitchell songs.
But
they accept her for what
she
appears to be building
nest
in her sixties-hippie
style
hair.
The
alley and house cats,
however,
are not as easily
deceived.
Never was there a fern
or
oak tree with such pinkish roots
sticking
out of sandal boots, and the
squirrels
too seem hesitant at first
to
climb her trunk and search for nuts.
The
neighbors? Well, God
bless
the neighbors who
always
accepted her,
never
questioning anything she
does.
They just stare awhile
then
waddle on, grocery
bags
bouncing off their
hips,
chatting pleasantly
about
the weather, “Sure
is warm tonight, ain’t it?”
I
worry about her skin,
though.
Too thin and pale,
and
as I said before very
fragile,
highly susceptible
to
moon burns. She refuses
to
close her eyes when stars
begin
to nova or a stray
meteor
streaks across the
evening
sky. I try to coax
her
back inside, but there’s no
reasoning
with her when she
shifts
into full tree mode.
rrw 4-28-12
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