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