Reality hangs kindly
on the limbs of bare trees;
truth-tellers once covered in leaves,
slowly baring their souls;
when gravity and the moon
pull away all the soft color
that’s been getting all the attention;
when they lean
into each other,
stretching,
moving with reptile accuracy
into intimate places,
left open it seems
for this purpose.
You can pick out those that love each other
..most.
They stroke,
dance,
and persuade;
sometimes swaying together,
undulating with practiced
….agreement;
sometimes,
slowly,
growing into each other’s bones.
Who could doubt their promise?
These naked embraces
leave traces;
pleaded offerings,
molded acceptance;
signatures
penned in each other’s skin.
Shared favors in the spring,
richly laced
through each others fingers;
enfolding each other
below the soil & rock,
until the lifelines lie
and trick themselves
into not knowing their own beginning;
giving and given,
too far to say who’s is who’s;
until one loses it’s spring,
and settles quietly
into giving no more.
Then the sunlight lays differently.
The shadows lose their way.
The seasons
shift,
through a stiffly framed embrace.
Each touch,
hunted by the living,
stroking the air
remembering,
reaching;
waiting
with well-practiced grace;
summoning life from the ground,
and only slowly
growing into the space left behind.
It’s not true, you know,
that the oak and the cypress
avoid each other’s shadow.
Trees live nestled up into each other;
touching,
sharing the same rain,
the same sun,
the same wind.
When a tree is alone it suffers;
left to only love the sky.