at the kitchen table
explaining to my son
how poplars sprout from runners
using my hand as metaphor – reaching out –
then seeing the idea root in his mind
as he spreads his hand too
little shoots of thoughts struggling for the surface
and I’m sensing that green fervour surge again
the sap rising in me
feeling thirty feet closer to the sky
my head swaying in a wind of leaf flutter
I can hardly stop trembling
until he calms me saying
there’s a songbird perching in your hair
and quietly we listen to the carolling thrush
in the forested kitchen
dappled with sun
Rae Crossman