I put my arm around the ash tree
in the garden.
Brother, I said,
I have grown all I can grow.
I have separated light
into flags,
and hoisted poems
to the top of their staffs.
You have grown
taller than the house,
and heaven knows
what you’ve seen,
when the dawn unfurls,
pink as a flower,
or the moon rises
orange as a jewel.
We have come a long way
from seedlings to branches,
learned names written from rain,
stories of people
and how they have grown.
Now, dear friend,
before the advent of winter,
let spring rise inside us,
ready to bloom,
once more,
once more,
though the snow not stop falling,
until it covers us both.