Some Days
       

I think of the trees,
the sycamore, dogwood, sugar maple,
a stable oak, a twisted pine, and
see the leaves or needles
as clearly as we see the fingers on our hands,
and see the depth of their roots as possibilities,
as directions to follow, and that we are
directional ourselves, leaning one way
and staring with green eyes toward
leafy branches. When I say I am
no longer troubled by your closeness,
I am thinking of the trees, the way
trees grow, branches overlapping,
shade richer underneath two than one of them,
each grown accustomed to the roots that are
spreading together underground.

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Copyright © 2019 Gigi Marks All rights reserved
from Territory
Silverfish Review Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission