Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Alice Pero

BIRCH

I am writing the white of the birch
as she leans upward toward blue
My eye tracing words where her leaves touch color,
my ears finding sound in her transparent skin
Sky cannot sing but my fingers can
A tune clear and clean, sung to crinkled bark,
thin branches waving in the breeze,
patterns of etched sound, reach out,
Only I can hear, sight and meaning together
Birch finds sky, I sketch the mute greeting,
Somewhere, an invisible muse, laughing

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