Klimt: Tree of Life

Between the clothes and sharp morning all golden and shining and radiant and the downy wrap of solemn evening all starry and holding and softening grows the tree of life, the tree we wear the tree we imagine, the tree of yesteryear. And all the coils of every living branch curling upon itself wrapped in light seeking light, golden light held in hand and all the tiny brimming bursts of fuzz bristling open, cottony and welcoming pulling us downward into the sleep of old. Where we begin and end is tied up inside the frame and the future and the roots where paired twos have loved and born where singles searched and found remorse and all that withers has once unfurled found night and breath and shining of stars. What gifts your father have led you to wield returns in us, our gazes beguiled toward gifts and gilding layered on thick, year after year mothers to be become mothers long loved and mothers who never begin or end simple curl and unfurl and lay quiescent as another. There beneath your roots lies the fleeting family wandering off through the earth and rising like steamy wreaths that flitter out and whisper there in the universe of boxes and uncoding reborn as packages and plutos and meteoric collisions, unbirthed and rebirthed, another seed.