Ash
This tree is the flex in my hip bone,
the ancient urge to scramble.
This tree is the cool in my marrow.
The leaves curl and blacken.
My sap is birdsong and blight;
my layers are years. I echo
up to the arms of its crown.
My taproot burrows.
It will die in a year, maybe three
and undeterred, I will trace
its bark with the curl of my feet.
I will reach for its waist,
and when my arms circle nothing but sky,
I will know my place.
Nina Parmenter
