like a wave.  You interest me,
I say to the tree.  A stone-shore shift.  A dry sea.  I shimmer
in response like the tree.  Hush, she says, slow down.  Stop,
in fact.  Whoosh, just a little.  Like me.  See?
What’s the rush?  Sigh.  Like a shoal of leaves.  Shimmy
like fish.  Swish.

                                                                         Such a push
of air.  Kiss, says the silver birch, leaning in, lush
as paper.  I insist.  Yes, says the poem, rustling,
I catch your drift.