to experience that tree
above the auction crowd.
Its lowest limbs had been picked clean,
but ripe fruit bobbed above us
in leaf-shifting wind
as the tree resisted the human,
our money worries,
the generations-deep possessions
now being cashed in
to settle someone’s dying.
Cherry. . . . But tonight,
as I somehow knew I would,
I’ve descended steps
beneath matted grass
under the tree. Above me,
it speaks its own syllables,
black-winking cherries
that echo the starry sky.
Here, root-hairs shine
along tunnels,
and in this last room
a color appears, black-red,
shaped into one word.