You come to nature and see
yourself.
In likenesses, say:
bones and books and dresses,
cream-sheath, pearl-shine sheeted
so-and-so of the woods.
Can you see us without
the pen in your hand?
The way we love a long winter,
our trunks swathed white
as defense against
too much light.
The way something can still burn
in the coldest season.
Yes. We.
How narrow our shoots
how pure the stand,
rarely alone
we raise from summer ash
in call and response.
A clarity of birches. An overland.
Lifted
(like a veil?)
as quickly as your childhood.