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“I always thought you were made of trees,”
He said to me.
To be so seen
Is a green kind of sadness.
It feels so new—tiny shoot,
Proof of life.
Does that mean I was invisible before?

Ok but let me be oak,
My branches curved back down to earth.
The reaching and bowing a perpetual arc:
Rainbow on the horizon.

I embrace in all directions.
I live one hundred years.
I remember everything in the
Language of my heartwood.

And when I dream, it's not of trees
But of placing quartz
In the cold end of the stream
Where the moonlight catches
The crystal flakes,
Showing the fish where to go—
A checkerboard of crooked arrows
Pointing you back again and
Again to a numb and nameless
Deep.

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