By Bethany Rohde
That maple tree at the front of my lawn
is missing pieces by the handful.
In June it offered a full bouquet:
an overflow of top-down green.
I ducked under a lower branch
and stood inside its canopy.
I let my body’s weight fall
back against the scruff of bark.
Wooden arms reached out toward me,
toward my neighbors, toward the street.
Yesterday, when the school bus left,
I stooped back in my leaved den.
Those same branches, ripe with autumn,
relaxed their grip on stems.
The wind punched out clusters
in the nutmeg shag above.
Through those holes
in my roof,
cold air fell
all the way
down the back
of my collar.
I peered up through a skeleton of sticks
shifting windows of liquid blue.
In that dome of floating lakes
two twig hands kept overlapping
and spreading apart again,
like someone feeling her way out
of the dark.
A writer from the great state of Washington, Bethany Rohde received her BA in English Studies from Western Washington University. You can read her poetry at VerseWrights.com and on her blog, worddoor.wordpress.com.