and the snow comes down
like white petals,
I am the caterpillar wrapped in silk
melting into what I will become.
I envy those who cry in ink,
who can spit and bleed and vomit their way
I envy the dancers who are their own instrument.
No butterfly, I.
But to drift out above all your heads
or to sink into the soil
or to grow into a tree, yes, I think
a tree, that perfect bridge
of sky and earth.
Symmetry at every level, the branches splitting, the roots dividing, the lines of the bark, the leavesí tiny veins, forked, green thoughts, gentle dreams
My motherís hands, strong thin limbs and twigs
My fatherís eyes, all green and flurried and turned
carried on the wind thrust into the earth hardened into the fruit-the flower-the seedÖ
To the ones who know how to listen
the forest is full of quiet conversation
and just occasionally,
all the trees, all at once
burst into song.