Cherry trees stretch their hands downward,
yogis who have held standing
forward bend for over a century.
The DC Tidal Basin a garland, a lake
reflecting buds and branches.
I perambulate, seeing boughs and boughs
sprinkled with the merest pink and green.
Today only a prelude. The blossoms are here
already, but not yet.
I too am a tree. The needle last week
a bee, yet I welcomed that sting—
a pollinator who gave me not venom,
but compost. B-lymphocytes
now bud in my veins. But I am
not in full bloom,
peduncles still push from branches.
T-lymphocytes in floret stage, new life here
already, but not yet.
Others still wait for a bee’s healing sting.
I don’t know why I, not them,
was given this miracle now.
I do know this—this is not about me.
This is about our species, about trees
who perambulate. This is about
the blind man, saliva-eyed, who can see
already, but not quite fully,
not yet.
How Poetry Speaks to Pains, Needs, & Dreams
Submit your email address below for my free missive that I send out around the 27th of every month, which contains exclusive content:
- a personal reflection about where I’ve found poetry lately
- a “poetry around town” section of broader news, updates, and events
- “why poetry?” observations from a kaleidoscope of poets
- an invitation to conversation