Nightingale & Sparrow

EACH TREE, WHERE IT STANDS

Written by

juliette

in

,

EACH TREE, WHERE IT STANDS

Paula Bonnell

Swaying, rooted, the tree reaches: downward, for water; upward, for light and air. It is willing to pose with the moon held in its bare branches, it receives the impartial snow emerging from the wet sky to drape every crook and the top of each limb and twig.
Sunlight pulls a delta of sap up through the tree, amber inspiration yielding hints and foams and froths of white-yellowy . . . greenly blossoming leaets. Unfolding, the tree clothes itself in magnicence Preening in breezes drowning in afternoons, sequined in failing light, cloaked darkly in lightless intervals. Rains slick its (hidden) extensors, winds converse with or rudely seize it, the tree – attending – shakes or splits or endures, rinse-wrenched, in a calm vividly clean, enlarged. Rising and bowing, leaving and staying in bark-clad poise, anchored equilibrium, the tree again gesticulates in small expressive trills and mordents, turns. Neither complaining nor boasting of what it has undergone, exhaling oxygen, the tree chants in the new air.

Paula Bonnell

More posts