The Unselfish (Sycamore Makes a Wish)
You ask me the names of the trees and the children all at once
And I say
That is an Alice in pigtails
Underneath a Vine Maple easily holding his leaves at the tips of twigs
As if the riparian canopy is really made of so many weightless green stars;
this is a Ficus Benjamina, afraid to put roots too far below the surface
and over there Theo, with a milk mustache and chocolate cake crumble soul patch.
But I cannot tell you
the species of vine
closing around my throat
when you ask me to defend my heart or
expect me to apologize for the color of my skin.
I don’t know the name of the boys who taught you how to hate me
when you don’t understand. But you do.
In spring the songbirds suddenly remember the warmer winds
and call them by name.
Rabbits teach the grass to leap higher and bow to the sun.
Tiny frogs swab the river rocks until they shine.
There is no bird to call the deeper sigh from my chest and carry it
across the borders.
My heart is jealous of the leaping
Of softer creatures that tumble lithely
and never break.
I lie and wait
among the blades and fallen blossoms
expecting the tinier frogs to attend my cheek as they do
the stony countenance of the rivers.
All the while the resilient
Spring fingerling leaf buds
Of the crowded Sycamore tree
silently gesture
toward the gathering clouds.
She coaxes and offers a familiar shiver;
Her flowers swing and tremble
As she coyly allows the cool caress
Of the approaching storm
And we recognize a grown man leaning
a naked shoulder against her ashen thigh
learning
To trust and love
mottled bark,
and stark instincts.
