To me, the sun never started
or stopped rising earlier
I could only see a previous
all the textures, pitted rocks
misty wind.

I thought I’d stop poisoning myself this year but sometimes I do in quantity not composition.

The clouds just pass
no mind, snow comes every winter without fail,
these voices sing to me from plastic pieces formed to ears—

it all surrounds me and invades me
but I want it to come inside. I beckon
the voice and the air, my lungs and my eyes
want to float with the snow clouds

and we do.
We’re all wild geese
following the arches of the others
and the southern winds
—the sun a jewel we are given from birth
at our backs

L was gifted a tree for her first birthday. This one-year-young tree grew with her. A curly willow. Eventually it tangled with the phone lines. When L turned eighteen she returned home to a stump.