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