Waves are in the trees;
Pulsing. Skimming.
Running. Cresting.
Meeting.

I sit, a woven lotus skin,
to inhale their beating rhythm.
Inhale from my feet, exhale from my crown:
oscillation,
palpitation.

Colors stretch their shape,
and dance, and bend,
so to be round as their pulse,
so to be consuming of me.

The movement in water
swallows the whole of the trees,
and they grow;
grow higher, grow wiser,
grow deeper, grow free.