I
the wind is liquid
pouring through the trees,
fighting the green tendrils
to create holes for the sun

as it rains down
and I free myself from mist
to become dew
pooling on a branch.

II
I slide down the veins
of a leaf and trudge
across the tundra of bark,
ahead in the distance

there is a robin waiting
outside the knot
they told me to descend.
When he grows hungry I’ll go in.

III
The are tiny tubes that run
the length of the trunk,
through the xylem and softer
materials. They are ladders

leading to the roots and further
through the hairs at the tip
where I will dance into the dirt.
Kneeling down I kiss the surface.

IV
The black moist organic
where I swim, ride on worms
and feel the thickening.
Lets the cold give its moving

structure, securing its erosion
on waves of wind and moon.
When the air realigns itself
I am lifted above the trees.