The hidden flowers
Are bud breasts
Waitin' for their colored bloomin'
On the tree old branches.
The moss growin' on its trunk
Is a green thigh
On its very thin old crack'd crust
Havin' swellin' whitish scatter'd areolae.
The buzzin' bee in its honeycomb
Is the voice of its heart lettin' out its sorrow,
While it is
Aerating its roots with softer mysteries
Growin' up 'bove the ground.
Its knee roots allow the inflow o' life
To the fibres.
This tree is, in fact,
A wooden woman statue
In my vision.
Friday, November 12, 2010