BY Jason baltazar
this cypress,
—my six year
—swaying neighbor,
—-doesn’t know our inventions
—for its genus
—or clade,
but the root graze
—of the cypress beside it
—-names both.
—–this neighbor
—-never proselytizes
—dreamt up theologies,
only pulls the fallen sky
—into its knees,
—swishes shaggy fringe
—-in this prairie’s
—ceaseless exhalation;
—only reaches,
each day
—infinitesimally nearer,
—to potencies
—-feeding limbs
—the dizzy warm splendor
of growth—
and words
—will sometimes
—live on tongues
—-not as names but gestures,
—hopeful recognitions
—that we carry
similar potential.