The seed fell in a neglected corner
of the large field, a place where it was safe.
Mostly rock, though, and when the wind
came in over the pines the newly reaching sprout
was bent nearly to the ground.
Twisted sideways, roots tapping bare stone,
the tree reached hands skyward while all around
its siblings went under in the fall plowing.
There are five trees in Paradise, and one is moving,
throwing its fingers in branched parallels
against the still sky. Overhead a mockingbird
lays out a song of intensely ordered steps
into the heat of dusk.
In the height of summer profuse blooms
layer the shimmering air.
In the great heat a cool shadow
flows over the plowed ground.
In the great light the grass below
bristles with the air of heaven.
June 21, 1987
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