OXYGEN

The wind soughing in the trees

is a line only a poet would write.

And soughing is a word

only a poet would

muscle into a poem.

So when I came to

the line and the word

a chill ran through me,

something deep within

swayed, shivered and sighed -

an ancient part of myself

stirred…

and I found myself

gasping for air.

It was then that I knew

I had a tree inside -

and couldn’t breath

because the two trees,

the one within me

and the one on the page

in the poem I was reading,

were busy singing

each to each

and using me

to make their oxygen,

their song.