Poetry / The Way of the Wood (Analysis)

beneath the skin of cloud

it spreads out all of its bones

and each time the earth smiles

it quietly unfolds every one of its secret feathers,

each shining in its own green flourescence

as it is poured to breath

by the sun

how does this frail thing,

a lonely wish against the ache of the world

how does it thrive without much sustenance

other than the hope of patience and humility?

what is it that gives this deeply mortal being

such hallowed eternity that even the thought

of doom

cannot darken its touch on the sky?

in truth,

each of the fairies said without question:

"the blood of the tree

springs forth potent

from the purest light we know

because it comes from the heart

of all the Love

that ever was."

such a clearly befuddled answer

but , indeed, love seeps through the earth

like the upward glance of

                               pure

                                        white

                                                                trees.

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