“When the Curious Girl Realizes She Is Under Glass”

The damp dew settles in on the pasture

light tendrils of wet that seep into your breathing

and feed the hungry roots of the oak tree

with leaves on a twig the brightest yellow

echoing the caterpillar’s cry of little death

in the swaddle of a baby’s cloth, “It’s not over.”

“I die for you over and over,”

says the worm to the tree in the pasture

whose own brittle hands break off from wintry death

when the dark night air becomes dragon-breathing

and the face full of teeth is ragged-yellow.

I think, “I am strong because I am a tree.”

It loves out of all reason, the tree

it is not our fault, is it our fault if it is over?

the worm’s eyes peer out, small moons of yellow

looking far away across the grass of the pasture

holding up a knife to stop their breathing.

I’m not the only one to think of death.

The tangled web of security welcomes little death

and holding on so delicately is the tree.

But your body will rise up and trick you into breathing

and the gasping air claws out and spills over

as new life sputters out in the pasture

and the broken shadow glows a dim yellow.

The flutter of a butterfly’s wings golden-yellow

beats right out of the mirror from death,

who sits placid-lake longingly in the pasture,

and meets the branches of the womb of the tree

as the worm gives it a long look-over.

I knew I could hear your far-away breathing.

In the swoosh of cold night, it twinkled, my breathing,

a glinting reflection of the promise of yellow

and the unsettling words from the worm- “Come over”-

that hasten the progression of my eventual death.

But I am more than a stunting stump of a tree

that is forever grounded in the pasture.

In the tumultuous caddy-callings over the winds of the pasture

In the yellow wings of hope salvaged by the love of a tree

I can continue breathing when you can think of only death.