Size / / /
If it were dead,
you'd burn it.
Scatter ash to the winds, to the sea,
silent life buried in a shroud of earth.
If it lived, you'd take
the harvest in a black bowl:
first fruits, sweet and sustaining,
blood and honey for juice.
If there was a storm,
you'd watch it uprooted
from the safety of your window, protected
against the howling it struggles to bear.
There is no shade in summer,
no autumn nut-gathering.
In winter, it waits for death—
but in the spring,
a single bud:
one living,
held breath.
It clings to the world
as you watch.
Publication of this poem was made possible by a donation from Rachel Swirsky. (Thanks, Rachel!) To find out more about our funding model, or donate to the magazine, see the Support Us page.