Poet Tree

I have a tree, no
not mine: just an ancient elder tree
out in the woods where oft I go,
notebook in hand,
to scribble down random thoughts.
Seeds of what might be,
twiglets of phrases,
branching out into lines.

Bowing to the season,
leaves litter, falling down and
landing on the pages of my journal.
I nestle between the gnarled knees
of this hundred-year oak
and listen to the lyrics of
Autumn's song.
Blood-sap thrumming, I write.