you said, ‘they’re making the ground soft’

maybe ground is meant to ripple

and sag like skin showing

 

her age. the wisdom

of roots aching to surface

 

maybe we’re meant to stumble

and break blades made for vain

 

manicuring to steep amazement

in unpredictable growth

 

you downed nana cottonwood onto

teenaged limbs, too young

 

to hold weighted life, a shock

of white, stripped bark and sodden

 

leaves. the birds stand on it all, ever

resilient, flexible. these will be new

 

nests. there is no pride here, only

adjustment, as there always is

 

when the flightless impose

their ground on the sky