Equally efficient in separating the high from the low
her atoms spin silently beneath her crown
growling in the morning light
her sun fighting its way through the forest of her mind
as she chooses which book to read.
She is sufficiently undressed enough to know that the heart
stuck to her sleeve was not attached with superglue
and can be removed, like an errant leaf
in the autumn, stuck to her sweater.
A pile of books makes for a good thing to jump into
she rakes them together with her fingers
she gathers them from the lawns of bookstores
and pulls them from the shelves.
They sit here in a pile of many colors,
fighting their way into the forest of her mind.
Trees make paper of course, and paper makes words
where her thoughts grow, like oak trees
or raspberry bushes, knotty pines and maple trees
swaying silently in the breeze.
The wind is motion and the trees are caught between
stillness and flight.
The decision comes down, the choice is made, her thoughts are split by an axe.
It flows like maple syrup.
This morning everything she reads is part of a tree.