TREE PARTY.

It's got to be

A sudden trick of the light,

The September sun's

5 million watts

Disco spot.

Because,

Probably,

This party has been going on

For years and years,

And years!

The same old crowd

Hanging around

With their hazel nuts

And their acorn cups

And their canopies.

But there she is now

All lit up!

Little Willow,

With her slim girlish limbs,

Cornered by gnarly old man Oak.

How many seasons

Has she spent

Curling her roots away from his?

How many summers

Pushing Out pale fingers

Away from his shadows

Towards the light?

How many months

Of wind and frost

And chance

Before all this small talk has to end?

Before the awful,

deadly,

embrace

Of that long

Last

Slow

Dance?