If a tree spirit resides among our kitchen
planks of pine, he must lie lengthwise,
holding the blond grains tight about him,
robes to hide behind, and these
dark knots we suppose are shades he wears
against the sun. No chirp from him—full
up, thirst slaked on spilt tea, his ribs
tickled with an airy cloth! No evidence.
But then, he’d be a fool to show. We’d have
to throw him out. He’d not make wilderness.