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The trees are purple out by the highway. Late April.
I unshackle from the desk and pilgrim outside.
I would throw myself into these trees if they weren’t
so far off the road. And I’d bearhug those leaves
if they weren’t so perfect with my hulk away from them.
People tell me I was never a nature poet,
whatever that means. You would love these trees too,
and the purple blossoms beside the just-green brush.

Beside the just-green brush and the purple blossoms,
these trees. You would love them too. Whatever that means.
I was never a nature poet, people me tell me
with my hulk away from them. If they weren’t so perfect
I’d bearhug these leaves so far off the road.
If they weren’t trees I would throw myself into them.
I pilgrim outside and unshackle from the desk.
It’s late April. The trees are purple out by the highway

© 2007 Daniel Nester