by Judy Halebsky
In Japanese there’s a grammatical structure for something that
fig trees have a second bloom, smaller and less sweet
what forces work against gravity?
what word for these kinds of trees?
Bashō can write about a branch that swayed in the wind
and mean the branch just now stopped swaying
our nights shaded against valley heat, vining him into me
snails, aphids, bumblebees, sparrows
skin heals in tendrils, in scars, in lines, bumpy, purpled, not weakened
exactly but less able to fold, less eager to stare into the sun
late August, leaves turning
a sprinkler, a hose, we ripened, ochre dawn and were gone
From Tree Line, Kalamazoo, Michigan: New Issues Poetry & Prose, 2014.