I would like to know the dumb joy
of trees, their misspelled love notes,
bs and ds facing the wrong way
and still they are standing.
I think they like their feet wet.
They can stand in a sob all day
and in the evening not think once about lumber.
They invite bees to tickle their genitalia
and bees oblige.
They carelessly grow the fruit of knowledge
and will let it rot to a fare-thee-well.
Some have winged seeds
that clot the mouth of the downspout
and make a black spunk so rich
one or two will live.
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