Lined with light
the twigs are stubby arrows.
A gilded trunk writhes
upward from the roots,
from the pit of the black tentacles.
In the book of spring
a bare-limbed torso
is the first illustration.
Light teaches the tree
to beget leaves,
to embroider itself all over
with green reality,
until summer becomes
its steady portraits,
and birds bring their lifetime
to the boughs
Then even the corpse
light copies from below
may shimmer, dreaming it feels
the cheeks blossom.
- May Swenson
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