I wish I were a tree, my roots
descending the deep bowels of earth,
feeling the warm molten core, drinking
hidden streams of minerals & gold.
My trunk stands firm like Stonehenge,
a guidepost for the sun & moon,
with branches spreading skyward
like the wings of a giant hawk.
Every leaf of mine is a tavern
with bread & drink for angels,
and at night I would break into
blossom, each of my flowers a star.
Peter Y. Chou
Palo Alto, 2-2-95
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