two thousand and four poems

September 15, 2013 § Leave a comment

Her branches reach back to their ground

and weeping, enclose her trunk

Her transparent green skins melt

liquid sunlight pouring greenly –

this room of my own.

Blunt pencil scraping old paper skin

I lean girlish

at her foot finding words tumbling


filling paperblanks

this poetry young.


September 12, 2004

Old, rough skin – tree bark

on weathered, burly arms.

I grab on and climb high,

scraped by long twig-fingers-


Hammock swings – wind sneeze.

Birds beside me, fearless,

search for red teardrops:

cherries, ripe and juice-filled,

drooping down.

Faeries watch, worried

should I disturb their peace.

Beams of light press in.

An illusion of magic –

secret place.

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