These trees-- these trees aren't trees.
Red, pink, so green and yellow,
these are my grandmother with a mellow
temper-- they are plague, age, disease.
These words-- these words aren't words.
They are survivors, they are the eternal struggle
for bread and water, a child through water smuggled
into a land of rich wines and cheese curds.
In full blossom, this massive tree
is a child's embodied imagination,
a lonely sparrow's ancient nation--
God-- Jesus, a disheartened missionary.
And this image, this poetry--
Love visualized, darkness tasted
as a warm, curdled milk-- a butter-basted
anger. This poetry-- where everything could be.
This poetry-- where all can exist and be free--