Michael Brownstein writes

Tree

This morning

a tree bloomed in the yard,

it's branches full of ornamental eggs,

ancient grass,

volcanic ash and fresh fruit;

It's leaves tamarack,

paper birch,

oak and maple,

thick red leaves from the flamboyant tree;

it's crown jaybirds,

robins and cardinals,

flying squirrels and albino squirrels,

possum and woodpecker,

a great nest of eagles;

and at the bottom of the trunk,

a small window I easily slipped through.

Suddenly I was on a Savannah surrounded by grand lakes,

lions walking with elk,

hyenas frolicking with antelope,

pythons play wrestling with giraffes,

dingos and monkeys,

elephants and mice.

I explored for hours, but when I crawled back through the window,

only five minutes had passed.

I walked around the tree, a breeze of song,

a flutter of tolerance and wishes,

but when I came to the spot where the window had been,

new bark formed smooth as onyx and butternut squash.

I touched it with my hand and tingled with wonderment,

touched it again only to find a growth of petrified wood.