to all 500 plus
trees in this park
I love.

From the gnarled
branches of the oldest
bur oaks and fluttering

pinnate leaves
of the ash
to the promise

embodied in that colonnade
of cherry saplings.
I wish I could fly

in the child’s pose—

protect my face
for the birch
in the center

of the garden
of the seasons.
If I were one

of those trees,
I would not feel
this shame or guilt

for loving

too easily. Forgiving
the wrong
ones. Bending across

the pond,
I would give a home
to nesting wood ducks.

I would sway
in the August rain,
blessed, thirst

quenched. I would
not break apart
over this.