My Yard, My Body
She is an instrument,
split tree in my yard,
her center cracked and crinkled branches
falling outward, toward the carpet of blades,
green sprouting from the between tawny brown.
That old tree is a massive flower blooming,
and looking at her, at the yard before me,
knowing its lushness-to-be,
I feel my cold bare toes on the ground,
and think how what is mine is not mine
until I water it.