Every time I see a birch,
there is poet Robert Frost
swinging - whoa! - to the
ground, bending beauty.

Today, in cold sunlit air,
I stand awed before one birch
with three tall trunks, starry
white, pure like angels.

I touch the peeling dry bark,
notice lines that circle round
where the trunk, spring-like smooth,
is soft as Moon Beam's ears.

Then I think of Robert Frost,
awakened and next to me
by endless gravity
of this one birch tree.