I step from my window
into the nearest pin oak.
I’m not even surprised
that I can do this. From here,
I have a better view
of mares and foals grazing
the limey spring grass.
I could stay here all day,
perched under its vast canopy,
singing my heart out:
Imagination is everything!
From one gnarly limb,
I drink its musk like wine,
tilt my head to better see
the one in slippers
and spectacles on the tip
of her nose.
Not a single care,
not one hiccup
of wind. Fog cloaks the morning,
like cashmere. The oak
wraps its arms around me.
Tomorrow you will read of
a woman who died
believing she was a bird,
until she hit the ground.
