#baguettediary

at being oak or beech or yew.

They shake their leaves to make a breeze

and pop out blossom for the bees.

In crook of branch they’ll hold a nest

which, birds concur, is for the best.

On rainy days they shield the feller

who’s forgot his umbrella.

In summer they provide the shade

for picnickers out in the glade.

Inside their sturdy hearts of wood

trees are simply doing good.

And dress by yellow candle-light.

In summer, quite the other way,

I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see

The birds still hopping on the tree,

Or hear the grown-up people's feet

Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,

When all the sky is clear and blue,

And I should like so much to play,

To have to go to bed by day?

second jelly post in a row but they were so cool!!

come share how I hear

busy old sea in whispers.

Moans rise from ancient depths

in ocean sighs

like crowds of ghost monsters.

Waves lash and fall & —

in roars and squalls

with all a mystery ahhh!

hands of men

Thistles spike the summer air

Or crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful burst

Of resurrection, a grasped fistful

Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up

From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.

They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.

Every one manages a plume of blood.

Then they grow grey, like men.

Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear,

Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.