Edited by BLAS FALCONER | BARRY KITTERMAN | AMY WRIGHT
We are from the same root, you and I.
The tree as I see it is invisible
to you. And it gets more that way.
When I was small, I built a house
in the branches of an avocado
and raised my head above the leaves,
largely hidden from the world,
let alone the mother who called my name,
bewildered by my disappearance.
There is a tiny god in this picture,
somewhere in the distance. I admire
the way one thing leads to another,
how to think gives birth to the verb
to thank. Or is it the other way.
Every mother is a child of something.
Thanks to this, that, and on it goes
over the green scent of fruit
where it gathers, beyond the roofs,
the startled wires of the neighborhood.
Such a wide and ruined web.
It’s gone now. The house, the tree,
the mother’s voice. I am a boy
to grieve, I know, but some days still
the horizon circles all my history
like a bell. Thank you, earth.
I am a head afloat the heart-shaped leaves.
What I own is nothing to you.