Each tree speaks to me
More or less
Grandiloquently
Nothing but a cloven root
That has chosen to
Grasp at the soil and
Address itself skyward
Here and now
So we too have planted ourselves
With each new painting or poem
More or less snugly recorded
In words paper string and stone
The tropes of our inner light
Searching for an outward form
Our bark itself starts quivering
At first hint of approaching dawn
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