Between the devil and the deep blue sea—
a tree, its branches whorled
to snag the spinner sun mid-flight
and glean from day’s glazed bowl of light
a skein of sugars for its sap.
Each leaf a photon factory
diverts some star-stuff on the run,
transmutes from lowly clod of dirt
a mesh of root and shoot and crown.
I’ll ask of sun an equal boon:
to make of most unlikely me
if not a tree, a greening branch,
an arm up-reaching into space
to pluck some sparking solar hairs
and weave a bed—but not to sleep—
to bound off like a trampoline
into those stellar arms of flame
that light the candle of my dust.
Richard Schiffman writes poetry.
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