There are white birches outside my building. On a clear afternoon, 
     the west sides of the slender trunks blaze with sunlight; the east
     sides glow with soft light reflected from the building windows. 
     There is no darkness around these trees. Moss will never grow on  them.

I hold up a sheet of paper, and it kindles bright on both sides.

I hold up a poem, and one side is lit by reflection from the faces of 
     listeners. The other side is brilliant with divine radiance. In this 
     transaction I illuminate nothing. My fingerprint on the paper is 
     only a shadow. The poem is incandescent. The poem is a white 
     birch.
~Tiel Aisha Ansari “Paper Birches” from Dervish Lions

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.

I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.

I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
~Robert Frost from “Birches”

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
~Billy Collins “Introduction to Poetry”

I’ve considered writing a poem down on the peeling birch paper still attached to the tree.

Although it tends to peel off the trunk in scroll-like rolls, I would leave it in place on the tree to see what eventually happens to my words. They may simply bleach out in the sun, melt in the rains, or blow away with the winter winds to eventually randomly land in someone’s field or in a nearby stream.

Or the words may hang tight to the trunk, waiting in place for a new bark skin to grow wrinkly over it, creating a new surface to compose something anew.

The reality is anything I write here on this blog, or on a notebook page, or on the paper of a birch tree, is faint shadow compared to the Words spoken and written by the Author of us all – birch trees and humans.

Incandescent
divine
radiant
eternal
Words of Love.