The tree outside my window flutters green.
She’s pregnant with Bach’s flute sonata soon.
Delighted with her lofty leaf, she leans
as pigeon poets rap within her, croon.
You’ve had the better hour of my bright morn
and still I pause to hear you play your part;
enticing birds_ those jazz-men with a horn,
that play for you and I with all their heart.
Lush tree, framed in my window, I confess:
I understand with mystery we’re bound.
Our April captures joy that you profess
I hear melodic beams of mellow sound.
Oh, solid tree, if God be anywhere,
he’s in your leafy poem that we share.
Photo by J. Casey