Snow lays downy ice.

I am huffing out clouds of fog.

Night is in the branches.


I look at a lightning scar in the bark.

The trunk has tried to bulge and knit.

I rub my belly button.

The newborn wound has turned inward.


“The tree’s got an inny!”

Like a child grown in layered rings,

The dirt always greens.

Worms patrol and ambush.


These scars wait.

The weight of frozen leaves holds in roots.

My shoes are wearing out.

The soles of my feet hurt.


I puff another cloud.

Spring will outgrow the layered snow.

Now, it is dinner.

I am home.