Heartwood

"I always thought you were made of trees," He said to me To be so seen Is a green kind of sadness It feels so new—tiny shoot Proof of life Does that mean I was invisible before? Ok but let me be oak My branches curved back down to earth The reaching and bowing a perpetual arc Rainbow on the horizon I embrace in all directions I live one hundred years I remember everything in the Language of my heartwood And when I dream, it's not of trees But of placing quartz In the cold end of the stream Where the moonlight catches The crystal flakes Showing the fish where to go— A checkerboard of crooked arrows Pointing you back again and Again to a numb and nameless Deep