Chopwell woods in winter;
naked trunks freeze
into postures--
like bodies tensed to give,
or to receive, pleasure.
Curved mounds resonate:
taut cheeks bark into memories
of curved buttocks. Lengthened
lines stretch, align as parted thighs.
Rolling folds open into labial flowers.
Thickened twigs swell proud,
angled above catatonic limbs.
Branches strain, as if to satisfactions
that can never come. Beneath
frustrations of stasis, moving clouds
skim acrosss the cold sun and dance
shadows on grained, old skins; covered
rings belie each tree's real age.
Drifting movements, though imagined
by my milky eyes, free ancient arbors
into fertile, swaying glades,
before my sight nudges down towards mud
and leaf mulch and settles on eternal graves.
