You are not made of bone or stone but wood.
I can feel your roots as they go down
Into my earth, your heartwood in its slow
Expansion with the running of the sap.
In the hollow of our bellies lie the shadows
Of dim caves carved slowly into streambanks;
There in my recesses where wet leaves
Have drifted richly your tongue a tiny frog
Is quivering. He leaps in miniature,
Disturbing gently the damp grotto. Here
The limbs branching from the living crotch
Are mine where the frog crouches, mine
The soft bank crumbling, the stream pouring
Over pebbles in clear currents my body also
Covered in small skeins of dancing light.
I pool deep green into the curve of you.
There you send down dusty shafts of sun
Through which minute fish your fingertips
Are darting, each flash surprising
The half-mirror of my reflecting surface.
Your mouth touches me like raindrops
Falling on the ferns uncurling sharply
In my heart; down in my soil stirs
The bright insistent thrust of a new shoot.
Our scent is fresh and bitter as a leaf
Rubbed between our fingers. In me you are
A sudden sunwarmed current from upstream
Running gold into my stillness. The frog’s throat
Pulses. The fish dart outward in a burst
Like liquid glass, and your reflection
Shatters into sunlight when he leaps.
Your rain drips from my leaves. In me the sap is
Flowing up to shake out into blossom.
Does it make me sad or only nostalgic, knowing that I would never now write this for another?