on being a tree

day has dawned

i am drawing again light from the pallouring sky
having drunk all night its darkness and the aeons-long light of stars.
the moon’s milk is in my veins.

o sun, our star, i am breathing your flowing fire,
i am kindling my morning fires,
your flames begin to glow in all the industrious atoms of my leaves.

the air is sweetened and the earth and sky and i we mingle our breaths
i am breathed through with life.

from the sky and the earth i draw water
in water all songs lunar are sung and celestial vistas flash
of those in their spinning of wisdoms i am made mindful.

i am also a fountain, yes, of living waters
in me is an ocean
and the sky is alive with my waters also.

no thing lives that has not drunk of me.

i nudge my mouthing root into the mother mud.
from crystals, stone and earth she brews for me by miracles
my nourishment of molecules and minerals and metals
which were forged in stars, and i am full of stars.

i am made equally of quiet yet shining fire
fanned by the breath of the brightening sky
the jewels of life are a-blaze in my slow, in my cool, green flame.

amid the climbing water of my fountain
in my sky full of celestial water
in my clamouring atoms
in my billion-crucibled leaves
in the push of my sugared sap
in the quickening and slowing of my seed-mothering flower and
in the more than muscular swell of my branch and root

all things transmute
in me
all things transmute

3 thoughts on “on being a tree

  1. Brava, Wyvernia! I am energized more on each reading. I needed that, too: for the first time in 3-4 years (who counts?), I have fallen prey to a rheumatic disorder. A ‘cold’ these things are sometimes called, I recollect.

    If I can keep rereading till dawn, I am sure to have shifted the dissipation down and released it through the heart chakra. I shall then tithe in your name to the group defending that roo wrongfully accused of jumping through the bedroom window in Canberra.

    ‘Tis perhaps my hemispheric handicap that puts this notion in mind, but your wizardly Oz words ooze Whitman.

    Peace be upon thee.

    X

    1. ogh, rheume, mon cher? talking of ooze, welcome back from wherever you’ve been. cool and wet and now you’ve caught cold. well, now, i’m sure you can google the right points to press and you know all about lemon tea.
      and you’re right, it was a cat, but it was in turramurra not canberra. i was still chained to my mother’s handbag last time i was in canberra. we went and looked at the war memorial. it was mind-numbing. the war memorial, not the cat. melbourne’s fitzroy gardens are more fun.

      and i often ejaculate ‘behold this compost!’ on full moon days when i top up the mulch. yeah, there’s a copy of leaves of grass on my shelf and it does ooze whitman and well, i guess it jus gits inta evathang! (i like ya beat poets too, they liked him.)

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