February 23
Misty gray afternoons full of spying trees naked
on the lawn. I'm not fooled; I don't need
the flesh of innocents to survive. Understand,
I'm more than comfort, more than callow, more
than fear of having to explain myself. Branches
are only that and not ever that. Remember leaves?
The way they rake the sky common as fingers?
Remember cars gathering pollen like honeybees?
Remember sneezing? That's all they ask you
to do. Now where are your hands? Has it been
so long since you've seen them
that you've forgotten what they're for?
C.L. Bledsoe
Posted over on Right Hand Pointing
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