You, the tree outside the window, 34th and N Street.
It rained; you bowed slightly sated next to the blue rusted car.
I lay there, the streetlight wasted and I mistrusted
You, holding up white flowers for weightless, exhaled laughing.
_
The red and blue of the room caught all the rods and cones, unused paints.
To know I leave soon and you would hold
Flowers until the rain slowed, air dried, and I
Swallow, Swift, Sparrow-ed
_
Further away until that car rusted to a halt and the leaves
Raisined, and none at the window to hold
You who held flowers to us finding
The space between us again.
_
Through the purple-doused lightning, I wanted
That present joy–those white bundles of soggy nature
To be seen.
But I remember and I see and I thank
You, the tree that held up flowers for us as we held up what we knew.
