Grounded with poetry

when one looks upon the shaking leaves of a forest

The poet sees a canvas. The poet sees millions of hands, a dancing woman, the crying breath of spring such as the likes of mournful Persephone

Another one might see, “The wind is picking up today.”

The poet sees a tree. What do they see? I feel it, the aching of its being, the depth of its frosted bones that solve a million answers of the heavens, deep and dark, squirming life that has ancestral songs planted inside its many branches,

Another one might say, “That tree is growing mold. We might need to look at bringing it down.”

I used to draw trees, my father taught me to stretch out many branches, count each leaf

To grow. Stretch. Tumble. Fall

With the trees, tower with the very mountains of our fathers, our earth that is a creature of feminine quality

I used to draw each tree like it was apart of my father. Mother. My beating heart.

The trees see us beyond the realm of earth, sound, light, space

They ground us and they puncture, state the boundaries yet collide with otherworldly pictures of romance, myth and legend

One sees a tree,

What do you see?