It’s a fancy word for the simple
sound of leaves whispering in the breeze.
We like to name things. Especially when
we don’t understand them: illnesses, moods, stars,
scent of a baby’s scalp at midnight.
The ducks have paddled away and so
I can skip stones across the pond.
Tree leaves like mouse ears, April bulbs
above ground though nights are still cold.
My mood is all yellow and purple.
after many autumns, winters and final fall
is rings – a dendrochronology of historical context,
environmental conditions, and possible future issues.
Earlywood, latewood, drought year, wet year, diseases –
no soul, but a body outliving life.
From up here, the treetops are brushstrokes.
Swaying shadows shade places secluded under colors.
A known river runs beneath this canvas –
but not today – while a distant fire
is the softwood incense for my meditation.
all the trees here had leaves again.
The young and the ancient, sap moving,
breathing, throwing pollen to the soft wind.
Amazed joy in the limitless sky and
in the blink of a hummingbird’s eyelid.