The tree is a bone.
Flesh. Thick moss
Outgrown beyond a river stream.
Parallel stigma of existential dream.
Count my fingers here. One two and infinite.
They itch and smudge the scars,
across the water cantatas
Elbow, squealing to form a knot.
Lizards swimming in the porous sheet
of lukewarm chills.
The tree is my mind. Women dancing.
Women breast feeding. Women submerged and knitting.
Brown, black stomach of rains.
All hovering with thrills.
The root is my cheeks, I guess.
Burning bright***** pitches of cool day.
The day ends now. We sleep. We shall cry a bit but we shall sleep.
Goodnight to muses. Farewell to trees/ aroma in the air is liquefied.
Foam memory. Farewell.
One thought on “Trees of the house”