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.