B. and V. Are Like Trees

Talk across the table like reaching branches of trees:
each meaning arises in our trunks like sap,
narrows at the forking of a branch, constricts
to the narrowest sense of words
and rattles in the spaces between the twigs of
what you mean, as you lean toward me.

This leaning against gravity, this necessary choking
of what I understand into what I can say, my rootedness here,
and yours there, the quick dendritic rattle of our
connection made possible by some unconstant breeze,
is what keeps us growing and reaching.
This, and sun and water, our food and wine, and our
talkative [hear the rattling?] nature.

And here's why you have romance and I have art:
we trust or hope, or act as though, some Great Gardener
will transplant us close, graft us into one great bole
of mingled sap, of true knowing. For now, until He comes,
reach toward me and I'll reach toward you and we
can trust in each other's pure intent, which is love.