Observational poem

September 17, 2007

Bare

Rough knobs of tree flesh dig into the pads of my thumbs

A soft moth leaps to my hand

Hidden by his home until the sudden move

Gossamer threads of spiderwebs cling like blind bats

To their living supports

Cool blue grey shimmers above the dusky

Brown bark

Sharp, crisp, clean aroma

Like cooking fires on a frosted alpine morning

Knotholes like pressed lips.

The harsh, cold bark

On a hot summer day

Cooler to the touch than an iced

Glass of lemonade

So solid and rooted

Illusions stripped bare by the uneven

Winter bark