Simulacrum of a Tree

I am a parody of myself.
You are a figment
of your own imagination.

We witness multiple realities,
but mostly from inside out.
You stand in cold rain,

arms upstretched, fingers spread,
leaf and stem, trunk and root,
simulacrum of a tree.

Between sea and sky
there is earth, you and I,
wood and fire.

 

About the Poet:  Ray Sharp is the author of Memories of When We Were Birds; Dating Tips for Conservatives, A New Poetry Primer for a Desperate Age; and the forthcoming A Is for Atheist, B Is for Buddhist. Ray blogs at newnewlimingablues.wordpress.com.

 

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