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This Tree

You don't know this tree

until you squeeze on its thighs
and glide your cheek to rest
on the unshaven chin bone

until you posture your naked back
and feel the latin shake in your arms

until your fingers are poised, stiff to the sky,
straining upwards, but still feel
the connection to your chest.

Not this tree
Not the river
Not the Father,
Not your own swinging bucket hands.

Until skin, around your forearms and your waist,
is crawling from the outside to get in.
The inside digging deeper still
to a larger world.


by Scott Burton