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.
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.
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.