It's Still Life

Ars Poetica: The Yew

This is a tree.
But this is not about the tree,
and it’s not about that summer,
or the forest behind our house,
or the Japanese maple
that Dad nailed
a birdhouse on.

Nails.
Crucified.
Like Jesus.

I called it
the Jesus Tree
after that.

And it’s not about
the huckleberries
I ate before chasing
something.

Something — I can’t recall what.

Always running
beneath the long sweep
of hanging limbs
touching the ground.
Like arms
over soil.
Soft.
Dry.
Scented.
Hot
as my summer days.
Chasing shade,
a tent of limbs,
a mother’s arms.

That tree
was a poem.

That tree
is ars poetica.

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