Do words rise like hard sharp metal in your world,
cutting decisive edges against the mind’s fuzzy not-knowing?
When you think “tree” what do you imagine?
Does your brain make limbs nice and tidy, green, rooted, leaves?
Or does it account for roaring wind,
roots so thick your fingers can’t embrace them?
Can “tree” leap and escape from the labyrinth of your definition?
Can “tree” burst out of the prison of the mind’s labeling?
Can “tree” scurry beyond all words destined to root it,
define it, kill it, destroy it, wring aliveness from weeping twigs?
When you box “tree” in a nice human compartment,
can it rise in the depths of a December night
and walk away?
Can it purr to coyotes?
Can it sing to wolves?
Can it reach its long spider arms down from the sky and
pull you from your soft warm sheets and shake you awake?
Will you let “tree” into your bedroom tonight
as creeping vines twine through your open window,
past flung-back blankets,
into the red beating flush of your boundless heart
which beckons dangerous words closer, only to
sprout them into pussy willows of
soft as sweet December snow.