Maybe in your time you’ve learned
that a tree, like this camperdown elm,
however numerous its rings,
broadcasts in its colourful leaves
only a fraction of its essence —
Its fresh breath, for example,
taken for granted in our own.
And though it’s unmoved by our views,
If the tree asked you to see it differently,
to conceive it atom by atom, arrayed
and functioning at the mercy of light,
itself colourless and prism-like,
would you still intuit green foliage on its branches because
well . . . you are what you are & never mind creativity?
How about taking an intuitive leap
for an extension of this tree,
who asks likewise, to be no more than the
infinitesimal and colourless atom,
Which, at base, science takes her to be?
Could you avoid a thorny protest,
and indeed hear, taste, feel, smell,
Or see her energy alternately? —
Imagine her enthused and jumping ring to ring
then surrendering, glistening with exhaustion?
It’s mind-blowing to think it, but maybe, possibly,
colour is no more than nature’s alluring encryption.