I do not have any words for trees, in my throat
I know them in throat, by astringency of fruit,
By disgust on tongue of caterpillars on them
In ironic glow as creatures of beauty of future
Their projected butterfly stature in the next sky,
By leaves falling one by one in October wind
Like snow in December of higher Himalayas.
I call them trees, even if they stand there alone
It is in their plurality they turn colored butterflies
When they are up and about, alone, in bunches,
Their lady-like cackle heard from jungle peacocks
As they raise blue heads from bushes under them.