And now it’s covered
with leaves. He sure speaks
slowly. It’s cold this morning.
In the meantime nothing happens.
Only the jumping, barrel-gripped
patience, keeping our hats on.
I’ll give him a carrot. He’ll describe
the tree as it falls down, calls it
orphan. He should have been a poet.
Quell the failed compost. It smells
of friction and flint. Of climbing
heaven and gazing on the likes
of us, our make-believe
boots, our blood. Oh rising