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The tree is a great wall of movement,
A facade of which the new leaves
Blow fluidly out upon stemlike joists,
Twisting limply in unfinished arcs,
Then fall as the wind falls, shying
Down, become flaccid membranes,
Flags of uniform colour, sans motif,
Save their fine, pale green ribs—lines
That hold fast only as they are pliant.
Light strikes the tree from the west—
Late afternoon. The crown of it is as
The surface of a restless sea that in its
Eternal movement bears out patterns :
The foremost branches will decline ;
Those at the base sway in melancholy ;
From the centre, unawaited changes
May originate ; all may founder, softly.
What are we to name this creature,
That meditates so upon its own energy?
Birds part from it, as from a reef,
Drawing colour out of its broken shade.