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.