For three years now the tulip poplar sets
spiky blooms at the tip of each uplifted
branch, placing bets in earth’s casino
doubling down her starlit happy house
of cards, holding an ace, drawing a trey,
counting the weeks since groundhog faced
the sun and lost his place in the whirling
wheel of fortune. Poplar splits her hand, cuts
the deck with care, offering only as much
as she can afford to lose, saving seed
another year, losing flowers to the wind
and tide, no re-deal yet, while in the sky
a Cheshire moon grins, sly, subtle imp,
unconcerned above the treed horizon.
