No Tension, No Cry
Cypress fused to willow
after centuries becomes impossible
to divide: the math
doesn’t exist, nor do knotted vines,
torqued in mud, desire it.
And the homeless ducks
who’ve made of this pond a home?
What do they desire?
A marvelous family:
mother and father, triplet offspring
half-buried in shine.
I can watch them, their heads
unruffled by grief, sapphire
and verdigris in sunlight, the grub-
white scars around each adult
eye not painful to see.
Bills doctor weeds loose
at the shoreline; their bodies cut felt
that smocks these edges:
a lush scissoring.
No tension in the buoyant chest,
no cry to break the quiet.
Only the feel of wings
folded in mind, before they’re unfurled
(like this) over the woods’ cities.