Trees on the Wing

I love to see themstand aloneagainst the open sky,as if they chattered with the starslike birds,and danced with gusting windslike falling leaves.Like statuesthey pose,graceful,as if absorbedin some mesmerizing thoughtabout how infinite space abovecan seem so intimate...

I pass the trees each morning—They call to me,whispering in my earas trucks rush by,they wave dark branches at me,and I look, longinglyat how they reach through cloudsto touch the glowing sky,or silver themselves at sunrisewhen grass frostsin early morning dew,then...

You have to knowwhen to set out on your journey,and when to stay home,see what is about to bloom,and what needs clearing.So pull out the rubber boots,the pointed trowel, the rake,the heart shaped hoe your grandmother lovedand set to work.Free the shrubs from...

Coiled,the hills releasein new green grass,wake uprolling,stretch out to the horizon,where the trees,limbs dark against the still dark skywiggle their branches,tingling in early morning mist,and sprigs shoot out,crackling,and birds wing homebuild nests of twigand leaf...

There has to be a zone for spring,for darkness bursting into lighttoo fast for metering,too swift for placing,changing even as you look.That dark limbjust a moment agowas Zone III shadowed,and now is suddenly alight,aflame with desireto bud and sprig and grow,be all...

No trespassing,the sign says,and the gate looks unfriendly,though trees behindbeckon brightly on green hillsshadowing their arching armson velvet grass.So will someone come,I ask,to arrest us?snatch camera from our hands,lock us up,handcuffed,for shooting wildlyat the...

Some days wake you in a mist,unsure of where you are.No trees mark your pathwith sun and shadow,or lake reflect an open sky.So you have to pull it outfrom deep inside,that imageof how you want to be—dressed in mountain gearand hiking boots,curling feathers—those...

I love this moment ofcrackling spring,when bare treesbegin to hum,buds start to wakeand turn over just a biton their branches,and daffodils,looking for light,unfurl yellow pennantsdrooping with morning rain,and on the roses,pruned back to weathered wood,buds swell...