Sometimes I have to spell out the sign language of trees.
A small porch where leaves circle like
propellers of a biplane.
Sometimes I have to have more than disguise.
More than the eye swimming with distance.
The land soon swallows the sun—
a bug in the mouth of a carp.
Walnuts thump the yard in the dark.
I open my arms on the porch—rise as
smoke from under the blanket lifting over a fire.
From Iron Woman by Diane Glancy
Reprinted with permission from the author.
