Poem On: Day 13

Medicham (#308)

Tree is a tree. Not because it holds
the shape of tree. No place
for a perfect thought of its shape.
No dream of purpose, of sipping
radiance and a season for dying.
Tree is a tree and I am not.
Pose is not becoming. I could shade
the resting Buddha with mind
as suddenly empty as dropped
teacup and then I might be
a well-made stroke of a character
in a fair poem about a tree.
Hard to confess this is how
I want it, a while longer at least:
the power to move from tree
into crow into snake into child
into corpse into warrior.