I called to it, displayed
readiness. I carried nothing
but my hands. A twig
for every stalk. Each snap
a tune in wait, a way
in. If sadness were
a commitment, trees
attest to its song.
A leaf quivers in anger
because wind makes it
brittle. Yet it cannot fell
the trunk. Storms live
inside this arrangement.
To study organisms is
to let them be and exit
unscathed. Passing through
is to return wounded,
involved. Now tarries
a whorl, a circle to scrutinize
if to layer age, exact
measure. There’s
a crack in my shadow,
a stagger drawn out
by light. All these
revelations are lies,
just cost, just cause
the woods would not
console, bugs balance
on protruding roots
and I must manage
with this limp
