Of Her and the Douglas Fir

Am Walchensee. Fir Tree, plate six, 1920. The Art Institute of Chicago.

By Ryan Kendrick

Watch her soft hand graze, touch, the roots to trunk.

Its lines of age. Believe, each time she places,

falls deeper in love.

Her bare feet scrape across the stones brought by squealing wheels.

She pays no mind, as they bear witness. She finds

yellow unfurling in the moss, beside

her sighs, climb up the branches

shaking pollen, falling, and becoming

kisses, speckles upon her cheeks and folded legs

placed upon the buzzing roots—of the Fir’s embrace—

The labyrinth of needles shimmer, as small voices,

echo,

I am I am I am steaming

A sweet streaming space

Placed for you.

Spring’s scent unveils

Through the wind’s winding works,

Becoming the dew placed upon her sitting skin.

Skin that has changed and grown lines of age,

Soft wrinkles beside her smiling eyes.

She’s become more like the Fir

legs and roots entwined

We notice:

their last breath, to blow a seed

Pollen moves through their melting bodies

That sink beneath the newly grown roots.

Oh, hello sapling.