At 4 years old, I grabbed my mother’s
Breasts.
Gasp, shock, knocked my
Hands away.
If she’d asked, “What are you doing?”
I could have explained that
I was trying to draw a picture.
Of her.
I decided that I only needed to
Touch the shape.
Then I could draw the
Shape.
I remember that crystal moment,
Amber suspension,
Not only embarrassed,
But trying to make sense of art.
Everyday I want to write a poem about
Trees.
I want to explain how the bark feels in my
Hands.
I want people to smell vanilla,
Or today is it butterscotch? Wafting
From sun-warmed Ponderosa
Pines.
Why, what did you see when I said tree?
Put Out to Pasture 
Beautiful poetry. I saw the bark of the tree, and felt the roughness.
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Thank you!
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nothing like an appreciative touch. in woodworking, my hands tell me parts are aligned better than my eyes. love how you brought together (seemingly) disparate things
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Thank you!
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I saw the trees in my yard, all leafed out now like summer. And of the bare branch tree on this page.
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“Everyday I want to write a poem about
Trees.”
A fine thought and a worthy poem.
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Thank you!!
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