A Conversation with a Tree

Wings of light,
free, not tethered to the bend of rock,
I hear a sound like clapping and laughter
and running tap shoed feet.

A shadow pauses on a rock,
I touch it with my own.
It is a tree of questionable name
but green just the same
on this hill
where I thought black stubs only remained.

A shadow is proof of substance,
I tell the tree,
with all this ethereal sound and light
proof that you and I are real.

Folly drawn my love, the tree replied,
the blue is always changing.
Now it curves upon the mountain
not held tight against my breast,
see it take on gravity.

I see, I say to tree.
So many places hurt now gone
like shadows on the rock now turned to sun,
and caught within the memory
a tree becomes a song.