• Christine Paintner

Tree Dreaming

I swallowed a

seed last night

and dreamed

I planted myself

in a sea of loam

sometime before

the periwinkle dawn.

The awful ecstasy of

cracking open,

stretched taut between

dark earth embrace and

a crown of stars circling.

Time no longer

measured in clock ticks

but by arrival of a

glut of blossoms,

plump fruit hanging low,

followed by

death’s jeweled spectacle,


branches naked,

shadowed silhouette

in the feeble winter sun.

Let me linger here

with delights of

the grey squirrel’s

soft burrowing into

my body, all breath and fur,

a murmuration of starlings

filling my limbs with music,

chorus of wild irises’ golden

tongues wagging at my feet,

or the pleasures of

being rain-soaked

on a summer afternoon.

Let me sleep

a while longer.