The Book On My Nightstand
The Mulberry Tree
outside is farther from
my window than the sun-
light that penetrates
my bedroom, 2PM-4PM.
The sun's yellow ribbed
lines against the walls bar
the shadow of a stick
that sways as if to scrape
the paint of butter
vanilla hues. The tree,
shaped like a menorah,
is dappled with fruit colors.
I think of exits,
with their ruby glow.
His. Mine, especially...
the mauve violet
tinge of night that spawns tiny
silver bursts. The caught "snow-
ball" in the sky, tossed from
a collision, long ago.
A Mulberry Tree
is also in my bed-
room. Its arms are dressed
with acrylic tints-
of butter-fly wings.
The poems are brief
questions; statements, of faith,
of poignancy. They boast
of a majestic
spark that lights the sky.
The dance of planets
in sync like the words
of the poem, their orbit
one year; two years; three.
Perhaps ten thousand.
The poem: age-less.
Through the lens of sun-
light, the bars-dusk stains-
prison-like- nab the branch
of the tree. So I will cling,
and swing, above the sea.
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