to the silver maple
arms across its bark body
cheek against grizzled wood.
When you drink
from the water faucet
lined up after recess
your friend’s lips
pursed in glory,
clear stream bubbles
between flesh and chrome
sunlight highlights
brown hair, small limbs.
When you dance
at a summer festival
the band cues a holy drum roll
a sax bellows blue grass blankets
winter toes relish spring,
green blades tickle ankles.
When you breathe
the scent of cinnamon
candy your papa bought
to cover tobacco breath, coffee
the scent of wet wool warms the spine.
When you let the mother of four go ahead
take back the cart for a stranger,
when you pick up park litter the critters
left behind, stretch for the high pieces
caught in evergreen boughs.
When you brake for a squirrel,
release the mother raccoon with her babies
in a forest glen outside the city
where creeks run and rivers pour fish
where oak roots mingle spread gossip
beneath our hiking boots, our footprints.
