Most Scottish of beliefs: a brown-green bark
shielding a bole made of pure flesh;
the circlets of its bone rings rippling
through length and ledger of the trunk.
Even describing it sets the mind’s fire
and brings the griddle to the heat;
shame me all you want, levering it down,
I’d scatter the snow’s salt and cook.
The tongue gives back twofold for what it tastes.
Kissed by the hot, forbidden branch,
can you imagine how the mouth might work?
You might say you wouldn’t, but you would.