Dryad; Awakening

                           Shagbark Hickory

Forever non-finito, glimpsed
at best in a supple torso
that seems, out of the corner of
my eye, to shimmy in the wind,

in the sun, in the moonlight. But of course,
as soon as I turn toward the tree trunk
to confirm such, there is nothing
but a morbid stillness. Its flaring

bark seems always about to be
shed. At dawn, it seems to turn
away, as if wanting just a few
minutes more sleep, to root a bit

deeper into a recurring dream
of budded branches leafing, of a green
canopy luxuriating
beneath the noon sun on a day

that is the longest day. Instead,
shorn of all things green save its wood,
it spends this late December day
watching its shadow tick through the hours.