Simple Theories

  The tree of apple documents space in time. Boring of course but part of the plan. Freely labour in the apple tree's shadow. It provides welter for everything spinning, who knows why? Perforce all weather is perfect, eagerly, by definition. Welcome and welcome, the blossom presumes. Shucks and certainly as the foliage surges. Then fruit, the mild certainly. There is when, when is there. Every tenement of land posits creative in the inkling. You feel the undertow of passage. Hit the brakes! The jocund fruit falls jingling in blue space. You will enjoy walking in the grandmother's time.

  Tall as canyon and just as framed, the oak remains actual. At parties, oak looms. Acorns aside, oaks are not hilarious: they stand. They stand for all the forevers left, and you could be cousin to the node. Expect oaks to be hounded and impervious. In politics, oaks sway with the release of the forgotten. The silver sliding sliver of light invents nemesis, also called fire, but that moment’s snap refers to ages of diligent oak. Oaks can tell you, tell you. An ageless, endless, amiable leaf flies while time makes a whole. Autumn becomes a suggestion.  Pizzazz  is a word oaks rarely assert: just too capricious in the fields of time. Human truncation accepts ellipses, serious whispers of rock argue sanctity, but oak booms the placement of the top of the sky. People haven’t bloomed well, the oak must persist. Please, go often to your oak. A manifestation proceeds to chancery. People lost in lodestar might ask why time seems so picante. Oak scorns drift.

  The Eastern Cottonwood has triangular leaves, a booming voice, crazy catkins, and a happy smile. In the freshness of spring it pelts the local rood with cottony fluff and direct emanation. When hungry it will lazily consume vast qualities with the sun's benny care. The cottonwood rarely takes sides but involves itself in proper community. It will seem like a stick in the mud come winter's frore blast but spring brings a seasoned boost that sends the tree a-singing for months of years and years of months. Remain secular as you approach cottonwood, let your toes be roots. Hold fast sans dogma and trite, as you caprice with cottonwood, the gods will gift you a scholarship of colloquy and flowing spin.

  We are happy In fences pine Trees gloaming while geology Tells us How long to go on Thick Frantic mountains resist us and our natural ways a crow watches from tree top but we don't think much over land A turkey Can only be A turkey One second at A time fences Fill the area of areas most sunsets are silent the name of the tree purges In geo Logic folds a Crow remains plenitude no time exists be tween moments turkeys made it a cross the street held on to the land the crow quietly said crrrkk  which went way be yond any thing ever or never said now be thankful