three things i thought

I

The young tree that fell down in the wind storm

last October continues to bloom and this just-rained

March-morning the black-eyed juncos are chasing

each other around the branches. Through winter

I thought the tree would die, but now to learn

that it is only laying down.

II

I keep thinking about you: following the kestrel

down Hemming road: how you would lift me

like a small child and carry me from room to room.

All this time I thought love was enough, but now

to learn of wanting.

III

Who are the birds about the branches, strands

of fine hair in their beaks? I had thought that I

was the tree, but I am not. I am the black eyes

of the bark and the birds, swept dry by the wind.