On a tree

I saw a tree
pretending to dress in modern
with sunglasses polarizing the commandments
         of season; though singed wood is fire poetry
on papa paper, it takes a very leafy eye
to make sense of, so it thrusts out a door knob
         from its navel                   & I saw a door.
The best doors have a mirror behind them,
throw open with force and it shatters; a dustpan,
a broom, a very languid material meditation, till
it comes unhinged, the lines on the frame curl back,
like in a sinkhole, and freeze
         in rings of age again.
I am a tree,
& am a door, always ajar for you.