I find myself staring at the spaces between
fronds, where pure blue plumes appear,
the air painting itself on my eye.
And I see how the trunk doesn’t end
where a person can climb, but continues
to the redwood’s true crown, sky-feathers
piercing the stratosphere, blue forest
on blue, some white with lace frills
of finest cirrus, before the wide canopy
of night, its invisible leaves
suddenly alert with stars—how they are
glimpses of the tree of light.