When I think of us I think of trees Grounded and rooted and reaching Up into the Unknown to know We live in the present but still dream Green and vibrant and feathered Of a home crafted of our woods intermingled Cork and Beech and Birch, perhaps The striation and silk, strain and surrender Of…

Beneath the canopy of a weeping Beech Wearing its molten roots like a dress Its thin skin carved into with names of elapsed loves Lump torso bowed and overthrown but held by metal crutches Ordained by some idealistic Harvard undergraduate  Even the most coached head Cannot help but to fall to the stomach as if…