Trees at Night

Above and below

un-trod ground,

their roots join hands,
both exposed
and unexposed,

like two halves of
a burgeoning
Rorschach. 

Sheathed limbs
of parched skin
sensitive to
variations

of lunar light,
an anchor of sap
coursing below
the surface

as they strain
imperceptibly
in unison

toward both

soil and sky.

Content 

with the wind

as their

only taste

of travel,

etched eyes
staring
blankly out
of bark,
branches
lifted
via open
callused hands,
rough

ecstatic fingers
wet with
the balm
of
invisible
beams. 

I would ask,
what hold

can they
hope for

with mouths

so full 

of pebbles,

and teeth 

knit through
with 
un-hewn bone?

A tree's peace
seems
paradoxical,
as if it

were unsure
which way

to reach
in order

to evolve.

Upward toward

a roof
salted with
aloof stars,

or
downward

to the
hallowed
heaven

below?

Peter Valentyne

August 3rd, 2019