trees are illusionists

a green dream

here in the east, a green dream 

wraps itself around us most of the year,

trees are illusionists who reach high and stretch wide

and build on the misdirections of the other trees--

all of whom want to keep us 

from seeing the clear shape of the land

and the sheer sure revelation 

of sun and moon’s dance with us,

yet I love their offer 

of the embrace and the sweetness of a flower,

the companionship of a great old beech,

and the eldering of a great old poplar,

there are stories of faerie,

of parallel life-forms who live beyond calendar and clock

and with whom we can lose ourselves for a time, 

or a timeless,

I love to live in the dream,

and I also miss the clarity

with which earth and sky can shock me awake.

by Henry H. Walker

December 6, ’13