I tend to like the last sentence I just wrote, which is: 'It was late in the fall and the trees lining our driveway had turned red like a row of burning matches.'
Tree limbs rise and fall like the ecstatic arms of those who have submitted to the mystical life. Leaf sounds talk together like poets making fresh metaphors.
She smelled like herself, like the wind through a tree.
I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.
What will the solemn Hemlock- What will the Oak tree say?
Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous; gray light streaking each bare branch, each single twig, along one side, making another tree, of glassy veins.
The trees like lungs filling with air. My sister, the mean one, pulling my hair.
I hear the wind among the trees Playing the celestial symphonies; I see the branches downward bent, Like keys of some great instrument.
What miracle is this? This giant tree. It stands ten thousand feet high But doesn't reach the ground. Still it stands. Its roots must hold the sky.
How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.
When I look at green trees on a sunny day, I don't know how to make an interesting picture of that.
