The Tree

It grows in a place, where no one has been before, the dark pine, invisible against an hour, blown about in time with herbs of deep green, the wail of colors comes flowing out, darkened few, who would sing, how that fruit of its boughs, slow turning lay.

It is fresh, prune so quick as to run to the roots, to my boughs, an embrace of love, its stillness holds the sudden drops, and the warm drop, digging in, it clings to the troubled world.

Let us descend, through the pines, and return, as rain does, soft joining tears, of pine cones, the gentle bright, till each motion wakes.

When darkness returns, as light returns, we will hear ipseities yet abide above, where the storm breaks!

And we divulge. Air must be ours!

• HD Hilda Doolittle