The Rise

The sun climbs down from the crown
Of the pine, twig by twig, branch

By branch, top and sides, from tip
Then in to touch spots of bark

On the trunk, then to slip out
Through the low limbs to their tips,

And at last to the ground, all
Lit, as the small birds light up

When they land now on the crown
To take their turns on their way

Down, branch by branch, in flit rings
By quick skips, in the same way,

And who’s to say, what is light,
And what is life in the light?