What if
I stood at the crest of a hill,
A soft hill that descended like a slide,
And what if
The top of the hill was a plateau
And a tree
Not big but perfectly shaped
With a rounded top sprouted into twigs
And tipped with tiny buds like fingernails,
Stood behind me.
And what if
It were dusk and the sun was behind me casting
Long shadows.
We, the tree and me,
Titanic and lanky
Would crawl slowly down the hill in the lengthening night
Getting longer and thinner,
El Greco silhouettes.
And what if
The wind blew my hair
And it flew up into the branches and tangled there,
And my arms multiplied like a Hindu god
And my fingers, stretched long in the lengthening shadows,
Splayed among the bud tipped branches.