The moonbeam falls upon the leaves
and makes them fruits of stars. The insect sings
within the branches; slowly, this tree lives,
its heart the sound of a million beating wings.
The tired wind may stir its boughs, but gives
its living spirit to the growing rings,
a fingerprint upon the times it thus receives,
and whispering, asks a million secret things.
– The chilly night doth breathe a vein more raw
into these souls, as nothing ever saw;
the moonshine makes their sap more stark
and turns the waters they imbibe into
a sweeter liqueur, with which they undo
the light, and fade into a powdered dark.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s