will wait for every last brown leaf to fall.
will only come when the tree outside
window looks like it died in anguish,
lightning, or by news so sad
its sap suddenly crystallizes into despairing
leaving the brittle, black branches, (each splay
Y birthing smaller Y), screeching curses at the
will wait until the cottonwood tree that in midsummer
silver-green with glancing mirrors to the sun,
I lie on my bed wrapped in air wide-awake with July),
out its melodramatic death in late November when the
being goes wandering while the gnarled husk keeps its
in my small yard.
that day of complete nakedness and death,
the tree’s soul has walked out of sight
the wind stills, dropping its last leaves on
is the day when the words will come.
will write them down for you and as you read them to me
they will enter through your eyes, the only two living
in my world, and make their way to where it is ever
ebullient May. When
our limbs arched over the roof
the house and moved together in the spring winds.
2, 2012 (Ground Hog Day)