I think that I shall never see--with apologies to Joyce Kilmer and his poem "Trees" from 1914--a thing as windy as a tree. Trees are rooted to the spot ("A tree whose hungry mouth is prest," Kilmer continues, rather oddly, "Against the earth's sweet flowing breast") where we are doomed to endless perambulation. And they merely bend (like airplane wings), where we break.
20091026-179 (tree)
I think that I shall never see--with apologies to Joyce Kilmer and his poem "Trees" from 1914--a thing as windy as a tree. Trees are rooted to the spot ("A tree whose hungry mouth is prest," Kilmer continues, rather oddly, "Against the earth's sweet flowing breast") where we are doomed to endless perambulation. And they merely bend (like airplane wings), where we break.
