What is a feeling
And where does it come from
Is it a vibration
From the earth of your being
Or a joyous image
Of leaking tears
Is it a ping
In cerebral engine
Or a sting off psychic mirror
Is it a continuum of living signs
Or a spectrum of ancestral mines
Whatever it is
Two things are sure
Once it is owned or disowned
It never leaves you alone.

Fitted snug o’er the ageless trunk, ever-young beneath time’s rings,
Pitted bark a woody blanket, wrapt round the stalk of sylvan slumber,
Guarding ‘gainst the bitter cold following the dusk towards autumn’s end,
While, head rested upon moonlight’s tender pillow, the tree begins to dream.

Nightmares of axes and termites and rot,
Memories of thirst-slaking rains, rich earth, and warm sunbeams,
Fantasies of laughing fruit and dancing roots and singing soil,
As only a tree could ever dream.

Nostalgia for the shadows of elder trees once gone before,
Visions of aurorae, sun showers, and shooting stars,
Hope of lasting harmony, unassailable arboreal peace,
As only a tree could ever dream.