I love him like an oak table.
So solid and Plato.
His lips, two candles lighting and lighting.
The chorus of my crab-claw tulips
bubbling, their red gowns floating from the plastic vase.
The wine glasses drain from our wrists
as he rests like a tree trunk
curved into our high-backed, high-loved chairs.
Drink up, my love. Supper is over,
tomorrow the cock will crow.
Tree Language, Marion McCready