Desire Poem by Morgan Michaels

I am thinking now
how it's an orchard I'd like-
an acre, plus, of pretty trees
hung with speckled pears
half-green, half-dun, half lit by the sun
bearing the branches down
offering deep respite
and free good feasting.

All on a sun-grazed lawn
alive with froglets
between whose every eighth and seventh leaf
swings a buttercup;
a clear brook slides by
fast on top, slow below
and all the painted birds
sing out in plangent thirds.

Its branches multiplied in gold
coming off the sun
and where there was only one
now, by division, two-
letting the blue show through;
leaf-lined apertures,
stepped oratories for all those other birds
whose songs are their true words.

And in my spangled garden
one lone tree
that could, for that matter, be any,
in the circle of whose shade
close-eyed, I'd let my head sink
back, back to the soft, soft center of the earth
and for the morning revel trouble-free-
Daddy, will you buy me one?