Face On a Tree
I saw a face on this old tree,
I stared and it stared back at me,
of course no word yet inspired thought
beyond that which the present wrought.
The face had hair made of the vine,
a woven, dead wood, crown of time,
all spanned away and far before,
part of the mystic in life’s store.
The face transmitted without word
where I had been once in the world
a life in green walled rooms of leaf
before I set to live the thief.
The more I looked it spoke to me,
“you come soon to this sanctuary,
where mother earth will there embrace
and give to you a tree’s still face”.
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