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A dream tree, Polly's tree:
 a thicket of sticks,
  each speckled twig

ending in a thin-paned
 leaf unlike any
  other on it

or in a ghost flower
 flat as paper and
  of a color

vaporish as frost-breath,
 more finical than
  any silk fan

the Chinese ladies use
 to stir robin's egg
  air. The silver-

haired seed of the milkweed
 comes to roost there, frail
  as the halo

rayed round a candle flame,
 a will-o'-the-wisp
  nimbus, or puff

of cloud-stuff, tipping her
 queer candelabrum.
  Palely lit by

snuff-ruffed dandelions,
 white daisy wheels and
  a tiger faced

pansy, it glows. O it's
 no family tree,
  Polly's tree, nor

a tree of heaven, though
 it marry quartz-flake,
  feather and rose.

It sprang from her pillow
 whole as a cobweb
  ribbed like a hand,

a dream tree. Polly's tree
 wears a valentine
  arc of tear-pearled

bleeding hearts on its sleeve
 and, crowning it, one
  blue larkspur star.

Added: 7 Sep 2001 | Last Read: 19 Mar 2010 3:03 PM | Viewed: 6461 times

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