A little girl, like the bending tree
Whose only pleasure lies in watching trees
And who only finds the god-soul in the climbing of the trees
(mine, hers, and what of hers that once was)
Whose play things but the twigs and the leaves and trees
And the jeweled sun, that plays upon her by the hours
Wind shaking her knees,
you found her crouching on a toadstool by the tree-ditch
and that is all bark bone and mud and moss
you picked me up and shook me
and tasted the question “who are you?”
drinking it.
all I said was “Tree, Tree” not tasting anything remotely sweet.
He said “Tara”. Tara, for Tree.
I am Tara, He says, now Tara.
How old?
Oh, how long since I have counted, I think? The day goes on much further
without knowing how to count. But I remeber lessons…
someone…
I count on my fingers and again. Fourteen. I do not know how to make
three more quarters,
so I do not.
Little girl, who only finds the God-soul finds love in trees
and takes home with her
the memento
of dark leather and metal
Love and the jewled memento of the sun
that plays apon the trees
that I see from the glass window,
(and what a
little girl)
I fog up it’s mirror, and
when I finish my gazing, with it’s white shining dazing
he calls down for his inferior.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 