What if water were made of flowers
the air on the lake would smell like thick honey
they would be taken up onto strings
and put around people
Everyone would be beautiful
And there would be so many different kinds that could cover the sky
everyone would cry
An old man would smile at all the people
Children would be flowing like nature
thinking someone has given them a gift
Their thanks being in how much life they feel
A homeless person would tie a garland into a bow
and put it on a bench
Women would make patterns holding them near the face
God would blush

Tall people would think flowers look like hands around the sun
Heads would need hats and skin would sunburn while petals
would run down with the waves of one pair of eyes
the stem planted in one heart
if taken rips staying in the background
a beautiful beloved bouncing in a thieve's bag
A hundred treetops combing their inner crown with the brush of their lowest arms
A ballad would play for the reflection of beauty in a mirror
the reflection of skin, in water
We are skin
If water were flowers the reflection would be God
And we the image of God
God would blush

Tree,
your veins are in your earth
my veins are inside me
the years are old in you and your leaves are fresh
you remind me of the tree part in my right foot
My bedroom's in the bushy head in my mind in my solar brain,
my ankle is the shoulder to the stumpy central branch of my leg
heavy layers of red aged mountain, my earth is the most pages
the place where nerve lines swim again young immortal creases through thousand piles
a networking for only the soul, the mind, the heart
geometric thoughts that string out the tongue
making crosses between finished rock, hardness too late and fresh like skin
I am more inner than stone, thinner, longer, loopier
nerve lines tiny things turn into staffs in the air in my arms
different than tree parts I am rimmed and mudding with water
my rippling veins at the bottom of my foot, is the surface of my sea upside-down
I bet you feel good I'm calling your earth the sky
I am full of stuff, the way dirt packs together to create things without hands
and your earth is where some of my veins should stand up too
I am always alive like you
the lines in the earth of me and my earth holding up the living wooden door
standing from my ankle
walking on the earth like my veins are not there
like you stand on the earth like your veins aren't even there
yet you are the earth, brown and green
and you base the earth starry
swimming in the deep black earth

A tree has grown very slowly in my bones
inside my fingers dark paint thicker than my fingerbones
a mess of sticks inside cloudy bushy leaves
brushing the ground from the top
long strong pieces inside creak
it is the foundation and strength
sturdy pops in the musical hearts of old pianos.
the oldest things are trees
you can hear their waists without hipjoints standing in the wind each year
they always sound hard and alive
wood is lightly round and around and thick
the color of coffee and light cream
they are oldest because of the new leaves
significant colors from ugly knobby wrists
the wind in them sends a slow s freshly
a strong lullaby that touches low height
grounding the air and my legs.
A tree has grown in my bones
my legs curve in heavy waves and gravy in the ground
and my face that twists on the trunk of my neck
is the back of a chair for a bird's pillow
the sight of a bird looks like it's free though it belongs in the sky
so while it sits
is feels like it's free though it belongs in the sky
so they are free on the sides of my house
whispering into my mind
on my branches because only something
with foundation deep
and brown
can have ears where wind blows through
tall enough in the air for the mind to breathe
my mind bending up from pressing out to breathe for me
a nest where bones and milk press freely through the leaves

The mind is like an unapart book with a bookmark. Words surround where you are; thoughts. They are written on your hands. You feel them. They are inside two sleeves. All of them. The book is you. The walls surrounding within hear the words and their ears respond in ink. The walls are thin paper that never are as blank as slight movement from the wind, only always catching stick figures, shot like fingers. All of you moves and touches paper all around you. You are weighted down in ink. The present moment between dreams practicing in that mind. That mind alive and thinner than one stroke, briefer than lines from the fast belly curves of your heart. Moving.