Gently, now…
The tree is breathing.
Leaves hang like
small green hearts,
tiny pulses,
each tipped lightly to a tendril,
and that in turn to branch
Tatted tracery against the paling sky of
early morning’s white-grey blush
ebbs and flows, dancing the
puffs and exhales of
invisible air.
Stirring, just slightly,
gently shaking tree awake at dawn.
This poem first appeared in Words for the Wild (2018).
—
Jane Desmond is a poet living in Champaign, Illinois. Her work has been published in Persimmon Tree, The Shrew Literary Magazine, The Intima, and Words for the Wild among other sites. She often writes about our relations with the more than human world.
