This Grove

Caught in the wind,

trees whisper. I sense

deliberations:

deep liquidities,

nurturing of fruit.

Limbs touch and leaves

interlace; moist roots

link hands. From high

spiked crowns, the crows,

like clattering bobs,

swing themselves at earth

or spin away.

Reticulations

in a trunk reveal

a face etched there.

Now I stretch,

and living breezes

sway my fingers,

lengthened, leafing.

Naked toes to soil,

my feet probe richness.

My face hides here

in aging light,

and I shall fall as well

when crows spin out

and chain saws eat

this grove.

Copyright © 1986 Marian Jane Dickinson