“The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see nature all ridicule and deformity… and some scarce see nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself.”William Blake
Many times there is the need to express feelings and ideas. They are given intensity by the use of distinctive style and rhythm. A poem is created. When one looks at a tree, its myriad movement, texture, colour, poise and importance, it is hard not to look upon a swaying giant and allow ones imagination to set forth. The idea of a poe[t]ree is born.
Minute, an organic configuration folding out to become something other than what it started, yet what it is has always been there. Like an acorn becoming an oak .
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