Who Doesn’t Love A Good Tree
written by: Michael Shea
I’ve often found myself caught up in your breath,
swaying to some autistic like mantra; to ebb and flow.
I hear music in your exhalations, like the ocean sighing;
to and fro.
I disdain such emanations that discuss you as rustle,
such inadequacies put forth to conjure each appendage;
every vein, capillary and leaf caught up in the hustle and bustle.
I adore your Romanesque stature as you adorn yourself to the sky,
with column un-truncated to flow by Fibonacci designs, one bisected
turn twisted and formed eloquently; so pleasing to the eye.
I once would have climbed you, losing myself in your majesty and form.
I know so well your smell my memories fingers intimate with your texture.
The contours of your skin, my own from climbing you well-worn.
I’ve played marbles with my friends in the crevice of your roots,
stolen fruits from your lower boughs like conkers; for a game of string
and secret recipes won when somebody successfully shoots.
But now like you my wisdom allows my pleasures to adapt,
from memories of games once played; of times spent in your house I stayed.
I sense now joy in the knowing you are still there, and relish in your ample shade.
Thank you for these gifts you gave.
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