The Linden Tree

In its dark sarcophagus The Linden waits for spring. It has lived quietly through the winter The gnarls stare like lidless eyes. Like a high priest It keeps the hours with long, Ingressive hums. The Linden waits for bud The way a voice waits for word. The branch edges Sharp, black points of death-like plasticity Tingle where they meet the air. The tips shudder and stiffen Into leathery nipples, hard Against the abrasion. Love Waits at the edges In lustreless communion. The Linden waits for bloom The way voice waits for tone; Its tender, moist epithelium hovers, patiently Waiting for air for vowel attending To that self-producing wave, the rippling Of folds: The singing Of a self-unfolding blossom.