Spring Forest

My writing time was waiting for me to take it: a morning spent in an attempt to capture the beauty of a tree.

With spring, firs

receive French tips:

bright growth

outlines winter evergreen.  

The tree I watch at breakfast—

the one with perfectly manicured needles swaying with breezes,

its fingers lightly dancing

over invisible ivories —

That tree’s green

has overgrown its feathered edges.

Gone the graceful, crowned fingers

lingering over some sonata of the sky.

Instead, a dark hillock,

bright sides falling away like wet clumped sand,

mottled blend on artist’s palette,

rich, thick oils built up and spilling over:

Spring against Forest.

Boughs hang heavily,

glory greens dip and sway:

lush touch of heaven.