you cross your fingers, for luck or for lies, i don’t know,
but crosses make for hypocrites and lord knows i’ve lived inside
this dogwood because no one else would have me. the maples would
not share their sap. the oaks were too mighty and too arrogant.
the birch trees said i was too dark for their pale, flaking skin.
the night before i had told you: if you wanted to know my heart
you must punch a mirror to make a pie chart. you are the key of
the sound of breaking glass. a thousand pieces still trying to
drink in the moon. this tiny sliver all yours. i am old, old growth
though i am held within this small body, made from redwoods
that resonate in the key of G, an open note in a symphony of
atmosphere crafted by sun and rain. and the trees know everything
and nothing of eternity. and though we will sin again and again,
there will be no more crosses for either of us to bear.