The oak tree planted at my son\u2019s birth
\nstands at fifteen feet in its thirtieth year.
\nThis early in the season, it holds its crisp
\nleaves tight as gifts for a lost child,<\/p>\n
rustles in the wind like tissue paper.
\nI listen for its heart which sleeps on,
\ndeep in the cool of the stone wall,
\nthis shadowed corner of the garden<\/p>\n
where a collapsed deer fold is pressed
\nwith bluebells in spring. But it is not yet
\nspring in the northern hemisphere.
\nWhere he is, on the other side<\/p>\n
of the earth, summer is on the wane
\nand winter will soon frost the eucalyptus.
\nI ask the tree for an answer and it replies:
\nstillness, still. This is the waiting time.<\/p>\n
A wind picks up from the hill behind
\nthe house, a song through dry leaves.
\nI hold the tip-quiver of a branch
\nand the tree shakes down inside me.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
April is too beautiful.
\nThe edible yellows of daffodils
\nsicken \u2013 egg yolk and saffron \u2013
\nlesser celandine like butter
\nrancid amidst the leaves\u2019 plastics.<\/p>\n
Cowslips put out hurt face
\nafter hurt face. Tulips are drastic,
\ndropping pink bruised hearts
\nin the grass. The world is ending
\nin slow petalled explosions.<\/p>\n
The sky deepens its oxygen blues.
\nNo planes fall from the sky,
\nthey are simply grounded, like cars.
\nWe all breathe, breathe \u2013
\nand birds sing their true notes.<\/p>\n
What has art to do with any of this?
\nThe mind slips from the specifics.
\nI sketch three birch trees, muses.
\nAcross the paper soft lines,
\nfiligree of branches, ellipses.<\/p>\n
The pond wears a sheen like oil
\nwhere frogs have spawned.
\nBunched jelly bucketfuls
\nteemed with black-dot eyes
\nlike an alien landing.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The red plastic fish I dig from the garden
\nturning up soil for two new rose bushes
\nis from your water-play, the large white
\nplastic bowl I gave over to your obsession.<\/p>\n
All day if I let you, you\u2019d stand or squat
\nlike some great god over your watery
\ndominion, a sing-song of chatter only
\nfishes and starfish and turtles could decipher,<\/p>\n
your white hair spun silver in the sun.
\nWhen you were newborn you spoke
\nyour dolphin language, whistles and clicks
\nbroadcast through nightfeeds. O son,<\/p>\n
now you map the currents as they warm,
\nthe migration of whales, slipped, confused,
\nswim the dead white forests; when you call,
\nI hear in your voice the despair of oceans.<\/p>\n
Here, spring has spawned thirty degrees,
\nmidges swim in the hot air, the grass melts.
\nSoon, the roses will open coral hearts
\nand bless the garden with their benediction.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Tree (i) The oak tree planted at my son\u2019s birth stands at fifteen feet in its thirtieth year. This early in the season, it holds its crisp leaves tight as gifts for a lost child, rustles in the wind like tissue paper. I listen for its heart which sleeps on, deep in the cool of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":32,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[408,405],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n