a maple grove hides
the north side windows
and the open front where once
we looked out
on meadow and wolf pond
bare
through a big-leaf fig, flower to
fruit;
beyond
tall lean persimmons
hold
naked trunks late in bud, brilliant
in spring mornings
a symmetry of wood, high over
the yet solid roof
the wind blows
tinsel leaves
in shadow and reflection;
each year
root of the parent tree
goes deeper under the support beams;
high now—high as the old, old pine
(center limb structure bare)
a great small-leaf hackberry
we put out
when it was a wavering stem
reaches its bulk head
like a heavy green flower—
all is rooted underneath
with a mat of intertwining
tendrils; the trees
are growing from my body,
that is heavy with moisture and green
substance
from a time of first planting
—when those we loved
in this house . . .
when my father and mother were not dead