One Tongue

When I lived in the mountains

in a two story house,

I stayed upstairs where it was warm.

all six years

could see only the tops of trees;

longed to view grass, bushes,

scurrying squirrels.

Strange: here in the city

on one level

I still stare at treetops

waltzing the skies.

It is ten degrees tonight.

Some trees are like giant

hairbrushes; some like veiny

piano-stressed hands,

and the pines, -- the pines

are microscopic versions

of daggers that impregnate

my heart each night

you slink off to bed wordless.

I could move back to the mountains

dream of green

or greener, grass.

Absurd.

The other trees tried to school me.

but with such quiet,

so much sun, I went

temporarily deaf and blind.

I've had to re-learn

the tongue of trees,

their mystic braille,

transliterate dark arms

citing far stars,

don the cloak of winter

the tenebrous catechism. 

Copyright Julianza Shavin