CC-BY-NC-ND.
I see you foraging through
weeds in a field; it’s spring,
air streaked green. I’m with
you in the field: I’m mud, or
grass, I’m beneath your nails,
held fast. Bark flakes off me.
You pass on, satisfied. Branches
sway, flecked by tongues—
look at my garden’s sprawl;
do you see me here, or in the air?
