The Face In The Tree

We tend to things ap­par­ent
to us. Sit and look
or stand and look and shape
a rab­bit out of cloud, a wolf out of lurk­ing shadow,
whis­pers in the leaves.

Bring me a cup of wa­ter and
a cup of wine and I shall
drink both, mix­ing chaos
out of or­der in my brown
belly. 

Fling the door
wide and I shall stag­ger
down the street shout­ing
in the lan­guage all drunks
know.

     Raise your arms to the stars
     when the wine runs out
     throw off your clothes
     and cry out for the one
     you de­sire.

When you awaken, naked in
some forest, and have
shiv­ered your­self sober,
you will al­ways find
an­other face in a tree. 

My friend who chal­lenged me to write a poem per day in December posted a photo on her Facebook wall of a tree that had a face on it. That got me think­ing about how we tend to an­thro­po­mor­phize, or even more gen­er­ally, cre­ate or­der out of chaos. It’s kind of a de­fense mech­a­nism. I wanted to write about that ten­sion, and us­ing a voice sim­i­lar to Rumi’s seemed like a good idea for the con­tent.

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