You stand alone, you
pine tree on rocky mountainside.
You hands of needles, you
eyes of resin, sweet mouth evergreen
to the touch. You half stretching
towards – nothing – you
stinging smell of snow, you ever scratching
spring. You circular hours falling
like rain on steep, barren days.
You moving blindly to unknown perfumed melodies
for a day – amber flowing on your cheeks
from your eyes, a flower
blossoming on your green lips
for a moment.