Tree Jazz
I used to sing songs to my tree.
I would make them up as I went along
like jazz players do, like Miles Davis did.
Swing my body around the Dogwood
trunk and belt: bare-footed day
climb to the top: the clouds are just my arm away
jump to a limb swing
monstrously
down: let me feel the rushing wind!
These aren't the real words to my songs.
I can't remember them.
And now that I have gotten so good at planning,
scheduling and memorizing beats and measures—the tree jazz
has faded into classical acuteness and individual picks of
high-strung strings creating predestined melodies
fervently practiced to prevent failure at all costs.
Even at the cost of not being able to
sing anymore.
I used to sing songs to my tree.
I would make them up as I went along
like jazz players do, like Miles Davis did.
Swing my body around the Dogwood
trunk and belt: bare-footed day
climb to the top: the clouds are just my arm away
jump to a limb swing
monstrously
down: let me feel the rushing wind!
These aren't the real words to my songs.
I can't remember them.
And now that I have gotten so good at planning,
scheduling and memorizing beats and measures—the tree jazz
has faded into classical acuteness and individual picks of
high-strung strings creating predestined melodies
fervently practiced to prevent failure at all costs.
Even at the cost of not being able to
sing anymore.