This wide, aged dogwood blooms
with the ivory of old teeth.
Last year, a flock of cedar
waxwings vanished
among new leaves and
fading blossoms like these.
Branches trace the decades,
mapping their one road home.
Under the hill spreads
this tree’s shy twin.
Gnats explore my forearms,
speckle my glasses.
I square my feet on the grass.
Twig, branch, limb, trunk.
This tree. The back
of my hand.
Wasp, wren, seed pod.
I find the rhythm.
This tree’s heart beats in seasons.
Wise one whose eyes blink once a year.
I am fed. By what,
I cannot say.
