The Wild Trees

O the wild trees of my home,

forests of blue dividing the pink moon,

the iron blue of those ancient branches

with their berries of vermilion stars.

In that place of steep meadows

the stacked sheaves are roasting,

and the sun-torn tulips

are tinders of scented ashes.

But here I have lost

the dialect of your hills,

my tongue has gone blind

far from their limestone roots.

Through trunks of black elder

runs a fox like a lantern,

and the hot grasses sing

with the slumber of larks.

But here there are thickets

of many different gestures,

torn branches of brick and steel

frozen against the sky.

O the wild trees of home

with their sounding dresses,

locks powdered with butterflies

and cheeks of blue moss.

I want to see you rise

from my brain’s dry river,

I want your lips of wet roses

laid over my eyes.

O fountains of earth and rock,

gardens perfumed with cucumber,

home of secret valleys

where the wild trees grow.

Let me return at last

to your fertile wilderness

to sleep with the coiled fernleaves

in your heart’s live stone.