What are these trees with pale and blotchy skin,
Like adolescents scarred with acne,
Whose brown Christmas tree balls hang down in early
Springtime above the hired
Van outside my son’s condo window?
Rain suddenly splatters
The sill from gray cloud ghosts rushing
Under blue sky and scattered
Cumulus ahead of tree tossing March
Winds. It is time to get moving.
The bed has left and the crib, but still I stand,
Abstracted by castor marks
In carpets and one hanger swinging in a closet.
This is a sycamore husk
The seeds carried elsewhere to go on growing.
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