The Wood Poem by Tim Carlson

Even her thorns have roses.
Swept into the purity of her smile.
Dreaming, dreaming for her world.
She recites her books aloud, she is infinite.

Her hair, it veils her soft skin,
you have seen her before, but cast no judgement.
She is common but sacred.
Hiding among days, among weeks,
A beauty of soul and mind.

The elder tree sways to the beat of her song,
of her heart.
It's pulse and rhythm are struck in time,
holding back,
to become one.