Classic Poem

The tree is a tree
by my own body.
By my whole body the tree becomes a tree.
By my whole shabbily clothed body 30° below zero
above ground it's 20° below zero
it takes root in my whole body, it raises its sprouts
having stood up a naked a defenseless tree
having put forth its hands in the attitude of taking punishment
oh, with this punished body, it rises up with this life being punished, but
that's not it, that's not it
as my entire soul is overwrought, as it is consumed inside, inside my body
as it endures, as it refuses, from below zero
it pushes onward, it just pushes upward and onward
back above zero, overground to 5° above zero, to 30° above zero.
My whole soul to the point of disintegrating
to the point of disintegrating as it is blistered,
as it's broken down, fresh buds sprout from my warm tongue
and slowly, gradually, suddenly, turn to green leaves
as it bumps against April's azure sky,
through my whole body the tree becomes a tree.
Oh, finally, at long last,
the flowering tree through my own whole body
is a flowering tree.