The crackling of fire? No,
acorns that sound like footsteps,
animals in the trees. The other world
from which we stay grounded.
My son sifts through leaves
and sand, a yellow shovel
in his hand. What kind of thoughts
must he have? The kind of life
inside, behind trees? The maple
in our backyard, her strong bark
as we looked, searching for birds
or a squirrel, then the wind as if
moving my thoughts, an acorn
breaks the skin of my right hand:
how it mirrors the bumped
lines and bruising of the bark,
that tender layer, which, according
to my mother, can tell a lot about
a person, what kind of work they
do, how smooth or cracked, if
anything delicate is left—
Please tell me about mine.
I can’t distinguish from what’s both
a new gentleness and a brutal tolerance for love.
*This poem was a Finalist in the SWWIM For-the-Fun-of-It Contest.