I fell out of the Poet Tree,
then the Poet Tree fell out of me.
I fell out of the Poet Tree,
then the Poet Tree fell out of me.
The Poet climbed the Poet Tree,
he had to,
because it was there;
he wrote a word,
climbed up with it,
taking care
not to reach too high,
too soon,
as the Poet Tree
can reach to the Moon,
and even beyond –
on Mars there’s a pond.
The Poet,
reaching the top
of the Poet Tree,
pinned the word
to a high, thin twig,
then climbed back down
for another word,
that from the ground he’d lovingly dig.
A warning heard,
but ignored,
didn’t stop his next attempt
at reaching the heights –
see the Poet
with his hair unkempt,
and his simile trailing
like a kite tailing in the breeze;
a poet loves the ascent of trees.
Carrying words from the Earth
to the heights,
at anytime of all those innumerable days,
unaccountable nights,
is what a Poet must do;
for what is a word
if left buried in soil,
if it’s not to be heralded
by a Poet Tree toil?
“Underneath the Poet Tree
I was showered with a simile…
just the one –
and then with three…
and then a million covered me.”