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