The Hareem

The golden tree, framed by oak,
Under glass above my desk,
Danced with joy as wind caressed
And tore her garment piece by leaf.
Day by day more lustrous few
Fell from her to grassy floor,
And all the other wives of wind
Swayed with same and nuptial joy.
The lord of this light urban wood,
Who dressed these dryads in their youth
In beauty green, o’ershadowed all.
With black and towering, tumbling sky
He treads the wedding isle
And sees their beauty, unadorned;
A promise fair of ruddy children
Springs from the Autumn ground.

by Evan Wilson