Let’s just sit here for a minute,
here, on this log, next to
the creek which flows strong and clear.

I have to show you this tree;
a tree from the sun, from the soul
on its own, a tree
on whose long furry branch
dangles wise chin hairs and me—
swinging in my hammock
safe and soundless
the wind tilted my chin for a kiss
every now and then.

Broom bristles sweep down
from knotty joints, various
pairs of elbows and knees
flying, exalting, flipping—
there is room up there
for even the dead and yet
here we are, down, down,
down on this log near the creek
which flows
endlessly.