we could be trees

Friends, I have found a stack of random papers, photos, and letters from many years ago, including some very old poems. I am having a laugh over here, because they are terrible and also because I appear to not have evolved at all since I was nineteen. For example, here is a poem I must have written for a college class. (What the heck is a ghazal?) Its theme is laughingly consistent with what I write about now, ha! I am not editing this thing at all, here it is in all its original glory.


We could be trees, leaning
with the wind, slowly breezing

in summer sun; in autumn
leaves fading, changing, conceiving

burnt colors--yellows, oranges,
browns, reds--finally screaming

to the ground; in winter,
branches bare, a snowing gleaming

clinging, cold and icy everywhere;
and in springtime, birds preening,

singing on a limb--flower songs,
rain songs--and light rain streaming,

in little rivers, down bark crevices.
We could be trees. I am dreaming

of one who studies trees, marrying
earth and sky in seasonal meaning.