Meditations Beneath the Eucalypts

In these trees I see bodies;
Hips and breasts and curving dancers’ spines.
If I lie here long enough, I might become as beautiful -
Wizened and ancient and tall.

Imagine it: the me as a tree,
And then the we as a forest.
(Or maybe we’re one, a banyan tree,
All joined together at the roots.)

So many bodies, swaying, all growing poetry.
Skin as bark, blood (sweat, saliva, tears) as sap,
Arms fractalling into a hundred blessed branches,
Something kind and holy.

So come and feed me sun, Keats, Wordsworth,
Neruda, sweet brown soil. Music.
Play that staticky radio. Sing to me.
Oh, how I’ll fruit, how I’ll flower…