Having Evolved From Trees
We are hazel-eyed.
Some things we are certain of:
Sun in the forest adds extra rooms.
We hide inner twisting under our skin.
A beehive within is a blessing.
Never play with matches. Ever.
We teach: to bloom, to fruit, to peel,
to heal in a swirling burl,
to suffer pruning silently.
We remember the itch of chickadees,
blue air of twilight like a shawl,
the liquor it resembles. We taste with whole selves.
Our women are never too stocky, don’t diet.
Our day — dressing, bedding down — is a year.
At weddings we wear wrensong tatting in our hair.
We converse in the pulses of rained-on leaves.
Our god is wind. We need no heartbeat.
We worship by swaying, masts in a marina.
Our low song, too low, withers and flaps.
We sanctify the privilege of embrace,
of running, the afterlife of dance.
The sun pulls life through us,
up and flaring, a yellow scarf
from a magic tube, higher, wider.
We die with loved ones, rot in their presence,
nourish their offspring and watch
the continuance, ever, exulting.