West

I.
In the afternoon
she came to me.

Red wine and summer spirit-
strawberries and citronella.

We talked then, the trees and I,
on sacred things like shadows and symmetry-
of caffeine and buzzing insects and quiet.

In the 4:00 lull,
the trees rested their myriad tongues
and decided, instead, to think for a while
on whatever it is tress have to think about.

I think a tree's only thoughts
must be ancient songs of praise,
and when they sing,
the song is a patient one-
and when they are tired,
they must dream of summers past.

Trees are largely unconcerned.
Trees are never bored.

II.
("The cool of the evening." I've always loved that phrase.)

When the sacred shadows began their tired push for dominance,
she brushed my cheek and departed.

She again became wind,
and with the prolonged thunder of a 747,
above,
west,
she was gone.

I was me again, and not my best.

The trees stirred, fitfully dreaming
whatever it is trees have to dream about,
or to be fitful of.

The contrail of a 747 going west
became a streaking comet
in the light of a sun
that seemed larger on the horizon.