Poetry by Christie Dickason

Farmer

He grows arms like branches,
hands like leaves but still too few
to do it all. He blows
and bends, taking always
such great care,
his roots clinging when
the winds of need shake
and bend him to the ground.

Sunlight shatters on his swift
acts. Birds roost.
Cattle seek his shade.
If such trees should cease
to grow, what bleak
landscape would remain.