The Tree
____________________________________

Church bells at the same time as sirens.
Cold feet in the wake
of someone else’s umbrella.
Wet leaves like footprints
of some imaginary animal
too unfriendly to be imagined.

Cold morning, years past,
I leaned upon the great pine tree
we called the great pine tree
and in its branches always
the remnants of a house.
Why take down what might be

useable, one parent said. The other
said nothing. Still we never climbed,
or never built. Over years
the triangular frame grew wet and even
the wood became contagious rust.
When we played we played around it.

Cold winter and a broken pattern
of warm days on the blank canvas
of inevitable horizon.
Once I sent myself into winter alone.
Now it is dexterity that helps me
imagine the tree, not courage. Never that.

From This One Tree by Katie Peterson

New Issues Poetry & Prose, Western Michigan University, Dept. of English,
1903 W. Michigan Ave., Kalamazoo, MI 49008-5331
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