I Sing to My Bones
About to change
full of light
transclucent with shadow
and electricity
all held up, out
by the aging trunk
children of summer
wild eyed and dreaming
of red, of orange
in the pale wind
of this last warm day.
I know this tree.
These scars of lightning
breaks from age
that stretch us
too far then release
too much just enough
I know these leaves
woven from sun
and water’s yearning
for itself,
all that will fall away.
Almost 50, I sing
to this body,
these branches darkening
against the brightness
of leaves, this knot hole
into time, the quiet pulse
in the heart wood.
I sing to my bones
and branches, skin
so bewildered by
years of criticism,
my size swaying
on the front lawn
mixing shadow and weather
seasons of opening or
closing, releasing,
or gathering.
When all the leaves fall
to husks of time,
I still feel
the green light
pulsing through me
alive awake alive
