(eco poems)
Neither the aged oak nor the youthful ash
makes a hurry beyond its reach, but
patiently catches the sun in its diurnal bursts.
Each breath of light and air absorbed, mixed, with water drafted from the roots
bulges new cells, between wet wood and dry bark.
There is stability in
the frame.
A slow
creak,
creak,
quiet -
like a clock
in its movements telling its own time.
Breath after breath.