When Dryads Dance (Poetry)

Soft, the dawn’s quiet overture begins
cool winds’ light music plucking odd, late leaves
and stirring from their sleep a stand of trees
who shiver slightly, stretch themselves awake
feel that tingle rising through their limbs.
The movement grows. From root to tip they shake.

Treeform-supple Dryads sway and swoon
in time to rhythms pulsing through warm wood
their mood exuberant with no holds barred
torsos twisting, near-grotesque, age-scarred.
Ancient voices chivvy low and croon
a subtle language deeply understood.

Gathering momentum beat by beat
the morning fills its ballroom with a sense
of energy drawn up from earth — released
into expectant air aswirl and dense
with flirting twigs. Sun’s teasing, licking heat
tongues blue bare bark — explores along each crease.

Such urgent tempo travels underground.
All of Nature touched — held in a trance —
the ritual rolling wild its thrumming sound
’til every witness with a poet’s soul
has proof a spirit lives inside each bole —
the tree transfigured by desire to dance.