ii; mythos of a mondream

It was easy to be wounded by the trees;
to dream of life as a cathedral oak
and root myself in the quiet, misting stillness.

Heartwood pulses a gentle tattoo
in rhythm with thunder,
in intimacy with a becoming.

The sun warm on my leaves, soil cool on my roots;
a monkess divining life through mycorrhizae and
photosynthesizing a pantheon:

Blushing at the sun,
growing by moonlight

marvelling at the nature of bones.