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--