little old bald-headed tree
stretches bare branches
into the sky,
drawing the universe
into its veins
to live again
come spring.

a torrential river of sadness
flows through me.
here and there
among the churning rapids
glint chunks of emotional gold:
happiness,
contentment,
fulfillment,
strength,
peace,
waiti­ng to be caught
and hauled to the shore
of my consciousness.

high in the treetops
spindles of sun-gilded leaves
spin wind
into songs of the trees
to share
with the world.

bored leaves
play charades on their tree
with sun and wind,
becoming dark targets
of rustling emeralds
shot through with diamond bullets,
or lanterns
soothing the steel blue fear
of lowering clouds
with a soft glow of hope.
shears of sun
cut green tinfoil leaves
to shimmer around
a dance floor of wind
until evening
quietly melds
a puzzle of lumpy whispers
into a whole.

the *****
is an itch
that I could never scratch
until now.

butterfly, butterfly,
ready to emerge at last
from years of false starts,
breaking through blind threads
of the cocoon
that has always held you rigid,
struggling through old and brittle bonds
which will not easily unravel
into a trembling, mangled
earthquake of universe
with nowhere stable or still,
trying to keep your balance
to flutter through storm-tossed air
and moving debris
until you can find some place
to land
and take the next step
to metamorphose
into yourself.

the sun
of the present
breaks through the clouds
of the past.