September 7, 2010

Withered willow,
scantily clad with a rustic memory,
wielding arms like tumours
each one
a misguided maladroit.
I do see the forest through the trees
but not the tree through the forest.
I thought this was a good hiding place
but now my skirt is soaked
with saccharin.
Thoughtlessly scaling these knowing limbs
is exhilarating uncertainty,
but to stop and smell the blistered bark
reduces the branch
to mulch. You’re stuck –
how high you are!
and each fine tether
moves further away from your own -
too far to jump.
To mollify (magnify?) your lust,
look up
and see the ladies who lunch.
Can you get higher
than they who drop their crumbs on you?
The ground is not so far, I think.
So, saluting the many mischievous joints
I slither down below
to sit in quiet
and have my own.
It’s a peaceful spot
but when a gust passes through
they’re back again,
those stubborn silhouettes
that hang out above
quite casually,
can be seen between
the dappled floor
as it sways with every blow.
But still I’m hungry,
and the view is lovely,
and behind me is some sap secreting,
(distracting!)
a savoury sacrament
on a pretty day.
From fields and fronds
of flourishing minstrels
you’ve picked one (for now),
I think I’d like to close my eyes
and empty my basket against this trunk,
the crumbs that fall from stems above
create for me a hearty loaf
when complimented by tea.
Ok. Lace our tendrils
and I will have
just one sugar,
please.