The Question
By Ruth Stone
While needles of the evergreen
practice a windy chaos,
heads of snarled hair;
something in the tree
longs for old age;
bald brown knobs of skull
without subterfuge;
but it continues with its greedy
resinous sexual odors.
The odors rise against one another,
spurting away from the scaly bark.
Along its fingers the tree
holds out microscopic traps.
Popping bullets of sunlight
crack into the subliminal
orifices, and the tree thinks,
“How exquisite. Is this love?”
Copyright Credit: Ruth Stone, “The Question” from Simplicity. Copyright © 1995 by Ruth Stone. Reprinted with the permission of Paris Press, Inc.
Source: Simplicity (1995)