I have work to do this morning
but I keep running into poems
that give me pause and pull
my gaze out my second-story
window to the dance of
sunshine and shadows on
the fence line, the blanket
of dead leaves turning to soil
and the trees, their bare branches
reaching or — perhaps — offering
their despair and determination
without a leaf to show for it.
My heart knows the same song
the trees are singing in their
slumber — they are not skeletons;
dead and dormant are not the same.
It’s what you said as we walked
yesterday in the fading light:
“The trees never quit growing.”
I want to say the same of me.