The oldest tree in the world lives somewhere
in Utah or Nevada.  

It’s a five thousand year old
bristlecone pine protected by piney resin
repelling invaders and blight.  

The location is secret 
so my wife won’t find it and give it a hug.

Pine trees aren’t the easiest trees 
to hug what with their piney stickiness
although I’ve seen her do it to one she calls Anna.

Trees have an atomic ancientness, a melodic mysteriousness
an architectonic self-regard.
Their spreading limbs await an embrace

so my wife holds them. 

It’s a way for her to feel close to the transcendent, 
not too close 
but for a moment close enough.
                        

The nest looks like someone
stuffed a baseball into a sweat sock.

Yet, she comes every day to watch
the male and female take their turns
whisking away to the trees 
to find their chicks’ endless meal.

To listen to the chirps of the male 
to the female—it could be a warning,
or a confirmation or, she believes,
a love note.

One day, she looks up and the nest
is quiet—no beaks peeking out, 
no blur of orange and white feathers
darting to and fro.

In the winter, she will steal
a glance at the branches where
the nest hangs like a cenotaph to summer.