About that tree, by Gregg Johnson

Narrated by Adam Harley

Perhaps someday I'll believe my eyes

when, in time to come,

endless deserts of earthy sand

stop hiding your gleeful chortles,

showing how empty the sky was

before dawn's greasy streaks

turn to green summery shades,

and blazing into

a glorious emerald harvest

all bare branches covered with hospitable

leaf-shaped snails

bowing in devotion toward the sea

where longing sinews stretch forth.

Living in the instant of recognition,

forgetting all tears. overrun by happiness,

lasting through the breathless nights

of unending mountain springs

of gushing dreams, this tree

glimmering, disappearing, was surprised

by direct encounters with streaming lights.

Wavering on the calm shore

where frothy fox clouds are retreating like grapes, breathing out a windy sky,

while weaving exhalations in whispers that stay silhouetted

against the blooming blankish buds,

they're hoping to get smeared with the golden opulence of sunbeams

appearing in a miracle of singularity,

to be astonished by the fairy tale images

that got plucked one night when the rivulets of moonlight

glistened on the hanging shrubs,

reflecting the enraptured, spherical, shadowy riddles drawn in those clouds,

rain crackling down, bubbling, sprinkling,

hanging for the briefest of moments in this vaporous air.

February 18, 2021, 5:53:21 PM