I'd like to see the tree as it once stood before me, childhood, the branch and leaf a single form of transport, ecstasy shaking my body I give to the leaves, the leaves return, my stare all interchange. But that was when I had a sky to name since I had a belief in constancy like everyone. The sky was my background, the drama of the tree and me, one act, then three, then five, a Shakespearean play script. some tragic flaw in hero, heroine, yet to be discovered. But now the sky clouds even dawn with a black mist that falls from all things and all imaginings. The tree in my backyard is caught in this. When I look for the sky it is still there but now a matter of my memory or prophecy. Where is the root, bough, stem set clearly against a morning, clearing?
Copyright © 2010 by Peter Cooley. Used with permission of the author.