In the parlours of the parks
Black bees bobble about the deep trees
Honey-buzzing drips on grey stones dark.
As I dream in the night wet wood,
My bones heavy in my weathered house;
I turn t’ward my death in the humid dark
And my life swirls about my sticks like a sea.
So do I dream it~
Down the hill of flowers
Into the green, wavey pool
‘Mongst roots of the swimming forest–
I dreamed myself a tree
And there among damp leaves
Became long grains of wooden age
Bound to the freedom of life
Home of the honey combing bees
Tickled by the diplomatic woodpecker
Littler birds flit ‘n’ twitter up and down the leafy stairways
Of my many storied arms
And my toes slowly crumble the stones.
But I have been otherwise made
shaped by the fingers of the earth
Head now resting on a soft knuckle of root…
But there is yet time enough
For everything to be.