The Bride Tree Lives Three Times
In willing textures where the wood rat lives
the drought lets trees die twice.
Realism & magic steady one another
& the hurt in your heart
from the human fact
circles the edge of the park. The bride
tree blooms late this year, its nature
stored at the edge of day—
some like to avoid the word “nature”
but what to put in its place
for ants & thoughts & parking meters,
stars & skin & granite, quarks,
the world above & below . . .
When you are confused about poetry
& misunderstand its brown math,
the sessile branches & a seal of awe
attach the tree to the dark.
Someday, you’ll need less evidence;
the missing won’t cease to exist.
For now, you stop to eat the free fruit
only you knew would appear
& for that you have your human hands,
infinite nature, a single
body standing on this earth—