Thinking Motif

Thinking Motif

It is quite possible the trees require
little attention — it is only wood
and ants and leaves and bark.
Besides, the way the cat-tails frame
each puddle of pond
there’s a better poem disclosed
in water. But maybe the trees
are in need of gazing,
and that is why they spread and shake
and whisper. They bud —

and we inhale, culling one moment
from another. Maybe there are no trees,
only blobs of leafy anchors;
projections of twigs and nests
where nothing owls float in nothing skies.

It is only words not real conversation,
you’ll whittle what you want
and drop the shavings to earth,
unable to grasp the beauty of a tree
in the company of flames.

By Ryan Barrientos Wilbur