Gnarls and boles, whatever woodwork words

Can turn or blur to use, to glue, to growth

Of board or bed, I know: I use their surds

And darkened boughs like fingers, so that both


Our hands are heard together on the keyboard

Bark; no sounds but branches rise

To leaf through breezes in the scattered cord

Of sheaves and limbs, inking in the dyes,


The ivories of silence on the evening's rose

And shade; twisting up the wires of a day's

Old sun and funneling the body's splay

Of music into crowns of maple and god knows,


I wind up nature's miniature keys

To play out, on a bed of vines, 

The tune of my own trees.