I Plight Thee My Troth


Not the pruned oaths of a pine-pricked sirocco--
rootbound at the forest’s dare line, its heaving

solar plexus pleading for a more pliant seam
on some distant horizon. Not the sun’s fickle

radiance that underwhelms with a providence
of blown-glass threads and temporal cloud bank
 
fluorescences. But oaken vows; seminal 
and lovely. Fluent vows that intertwine and add
 
ring years to shaded valleys that tenure gracefully--
imparted faithfully from loblolly bridges
 
into brook shadow unisons. Footpoints of light 
blazing skyways to a rustler’s new moon--

each step-by-step upwelling wetly sweet.





A Touch of Redbud

 
Spring reconciles the hillside and recalls 
her elegance. Bitter arms mellow, then fledge 

magenta tufts snatched from nestling in deep 
winter pockets. She pardons her renderings 

for dazzling celebrity crowds of dogwood 
and flowering plum; gently stroking the strut 

of assumed preeminence. A rosy, pink supporting
role for a genial, gracious lady.





Magnificent Deliverance


I stand silent and measured at the first stretch 
mark of a giant ponderosa; suffocating from 

having been force-fed the sun, crestfallen 
at the forest's profound significance. Not totally
 
unaware of my shortcomings, yet, bent on feigning 
guilt for their entanglements; the teething sprigs 

still overreaching boughs, pining for more sugar tit 
and cooler west winds. And, like the swan song
 
larks of Rome when all her trees had finished 
weeping. I will one day nestle into pine straw,

fill my lungs with spent, and fold into the roots 
of that same healing.