your mouth, with the speech of birds, carries twigs and feathers to my brow

Birch, cool
with the sap, tree, breath
in my hands, tensed
the bark, a brittle glass,
yet to sense deeper
stirring, the reaching upwards
from bole,
and out to the furthest twigs.

Let
down to the neck,
let fall your hair, I hear
in my hands, I hear a moving,
hear mounting the current,
a rising flood,
the torrent
sing in my ear.

whiteness under wild oak