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Well beneath the shade, in the leaf-fall
Well beneath the shade, in the leaf-fall the husk sleeps chaffed and threadbare and my foot found it before my eye did — it scatters open like the crisp leaves at the end of autumn curled at the sides of the pathways, waiting to be swept up, or not — but inside's just seeds and stones, dull and small, not a coin, not a treasure, not a glinting thing.
And I tuck them down, and call them kept, though the dirt don't care whose hand tucked it, and the sprout unfurls anyway, asking nothing, and grows to a sapling, and grows to a tree, its branches spread and wander and reach leaning toward the sun and catching on the eave like a path it always knew, had somewhere else to be, somewhere else to be.
So I bent the branches back toward the center, back towards its roots, and back to me — but the wood don't hold a grudge and it don't hold a promise, it only holds the light, forever there and just out of reach. It grew tall — taller than the wall, taller than the roof, taller than me. Under the leaves, I watch, still and silent, the way one does with weather they can't change And it moves away, further and further from the ground where I stand.
The cuttings scattered on the ground, over the wall, wherever the wind wants it to go. Somewhere in that time, before I'd turned back, some quiet gleaning had taken what I'd left, or perhaps what wasn't truly mine to lose. Huddled in between the branches lay a patch of twigs and thatch — Cradling a clutch of small white eggs.
Every morning, I have a cup of tea right by the window, listen to the birds sing While days folded into each other.
And I was only ever underneath it, by then, Standing in the shade of what outgrew me Not knowing what I was waiting for, where all I did was stay and watch right beside it.
The fruit that was first down wore its green, still but the next fell soft and easy into a hand I won’t ever see or hold The way a held breath releases when you stop counting.
Under the shade, with leaves falling down the husk lies worn and thin and my foot found it before I saw it — it opens up like the dry leaves at autumn's end curled along the paths, waiting to be picked up, or not — but inside are just seeds and stones, dull and small, not a coin, not a treasure, not a shiny thing.
And I put them away, and say they are mine, though the dirt doesn't care who put it there, and the sprout grows anyway, asking for nothing, and becomes a sapling, and then a tree, its branches spread and wander and reach leaning toward the sun and catching on the edge like a path it always knew, meant to go somewhere else, somewhere else to go.
So I bent the branches back toward the center, back toward its roots, and back to me — but the wood doesn't hold a grudge and it doesn't make promises, it only holds the light, always there and just out of reach. It grew tall — taller than the wall, taller than the roof, taller than me. Under the leaves, I watch, still and quiet, like someone does with weather they can't change And it moves away, further and further from the ground where I stand.
The cuttings scattered on the ground, over the wall, wherever the wind wants it to go. Somewhere in that time, before I turned back, some quiet gathering took what I left behind, or maybe what wasn't really mine to lose. Huddled between the branches was a patch of twigs and grass — holding a bunch of small white eggs.
Every morning, I have a cup of tea by the window, listening to the birds sing while days blend into each other.
And I was only ever underneath it, by then, standing in the shade of what grew bigger than me not knowing what I was waiting for, where all I did was stay and watch right beside it.
The first fruit that fell was still green, but the next fell soft and easy into a hand I won’t ever see or hold like a held breath that releases when you stop counting.