The Penmanship of Trees
To take these lines, however flimsy,
hurl them at the white shrouded sky.
Animal musk absent
from the pelts of boughs
Enter the white
not honeycomb- or yolk-
a migration of pine needles
To cool the number of damp beads in this morning’s wind, smell the leaves and woodstuff it edged around and bore into all night; no one saw. A stalk of tree branches rocks behind the porch.