"Three Stanzas about a Tree."
The tree too wants to bend over and wait a million years
for an agate bridge itself may have become,
as we turn and turn into with final grace
that seamless singleness we could not
embody across the river in our own bodies.
The tree has bent over which carried us here.
Striations like glyphs from who could imagine,
and there were plenty too who came
for the sun, who now are burnt into the Earth in a black seal
familiar to but one or two.
Have we a vault for fury, a cathedral like the redwood?
Have we wanted to be glass or a diamond of the first water?
That oak has the same date with carbon we have.
Have I, think, wanted to be the tree or one, two,
or three stanzas about a tree?