She Told Me the Earth Loves Us

She said it softly, without a need 

for conviction or romance.

After everything? I asked, ashamed. 



That's not the kind of love she meant.

She walked through a field of gray 

beetle-pored pine, snags branching



like polished bone. I forget sometimes

how trees look at me with the generosity 

of water. I forget all the other 



breath I'm breathing in. 

Today I learned that trees can't sleep

with our lights on. That they knit 



a forest in their language, their feelings. 

This is not a metaphor. 

Like seeing a face across a crowd, 

we are learning all the old things, 

newly shined and numbered. 

I'm always looking 



for a place to lie down

and cry. Green, mossed, shaded. 

Or rock-quiet, empty. Somewhere



to hush and start over. 

I put on my antlers in the sun. 

I walk through the dark gates of the trees. 



Grief waters my footsteps, leaving 

a trail that glistens.