Fragment of a Life

A Poem

the secrets to god-life must be held in the soil of California, I say once I see the trunks as big as my new york apartment I’ll be complete. ready to stop moving.
I reread The Overstory devoutly, like an acolyte, and I think of the love that is wasted, handed to us by steady palms of glacial-carved Earth reaching up to birds in flight, silk-string connections looping around grey matter,
words that hang like honey dripping from our sugared tongues, talk of the Earth and how it binds us like
pages in a book, crafting one story,
we pray our words are enough of an offering,
but anything framed in the golden fans of a ginkgo like maidenhair, etched into the space between the roots
by dirt-caked fingers —
even unrequited can still be beautiful.