A tree house built
upon itself
without a trunk
to hug. Painted white,
it becomes a crow’s

nest for spying
those moving
things in the grass. Or,
just blades
someone might make

music with—someone
who no longer lives
in the brick house
on that acre
of land missing a tree.

Road Restless

Between trips, she tires
of the asking trees.
Exhausted by the ones without
brilliantly hued questions, the ones
that taunt with a humming
constant in the wind—home is

not the answer
every time, everywhere.

Day 1,256

She dreams of exploding
into tiny corkscrews
of stained purple paper
dropping onto a wooden floor. 

She wishes she could inspire you
to rage over the mess.
She cannot understand
how you might sweep away

or ignore the color
she believes she might become
if only she could break open
her relationship to trees.