curl and crackle in the wind, swiftly opening,
folding and unfolding like the myths of childhood
 
we marvel at, then look away from, working hard
to find our place in a misremembered history.
 
How the metaphors we affix to nature are
meant to express something human:
 
wind for breath, roots for where we have
come from, home simply a place to settle in or for,
 
bloom for both growth and how far a bruise spreads
into surrounding tissue, colors our skin—sinks
 
deeper to our soil. Even if we’re just destined to be
uprooted, to be planted in the earth’s dirt tombs,
 
nourishment for new seeds to sprout into healthier
trees. Even in a sky filled with question marks,
 
solemnly poised caesuras, both intense
summer sun and the turmoil of past and future
 
storms, we pray for just one thing solidly defined.
Something to remember without ambiguity.
 
Just some regular old muck-filled boots
or a porch that doesn’t yield to even a child’s weight
 
or a palmful of fronds that aren’t so sharp. Or a rain
that’s meant to wash away the past, collected for
 
another kind of Baptism, and all these temporary tears
                                                        that come with it.