the crowns start to blush in midday heat
they do not need to whisper
deep in dialogue with passing clouds
but I’m down
down the trunk I slid and hit the ground
it’s dim in here, the whimper
muffled mute and padded out

I drown

I’m drawn to scent of rotting leaves
the secret drawings
of the network underneath
an etch-a-sketch in shades of dark
to sense bare, not to see
I unlace and probe the path of measured trees
I take my leave
and roll, an apple in relief
unburdened
no more jumping hurdles
of hosting ghosts in grief 
there’s none on meadows thick 
with honeyed clover and bitter weeds
laced acrid
with unexpected autumn nectar

I’ll pick the lucky leaves
misfits in greater puzzle piece
and lie in grasses still and listen
I’ll make a deal
when bruises fade a shade of dusty-rose
and dusks won’t thrust
a languid pose, an act of make-believe
deep down my throat
I’ll make my peace, I’ll heal
rebuild
weave safety net
an always-space, a never-empty nest
between the roots of measured trees

I’ll craft it out of twigs
and blushing leaves
I promise
some time
some place
will be a home
I’ll make it into home
I’ll make it home.