
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