Winter Trees

The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.

On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing--
Memories growning, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.


Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waisting-deep in history--

Full of wings, otherworldliness.

In this, they are Ledas.

O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these peitas?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing.


note:
12 Ledas: Leda, the maiden who was raped by Zeus in the guise of a swan.

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