By Mary Buchinger

Posted on

     On this path in the city fens
the man walking in front of me
 listens too to the geese and jays
  reporting their morning news

                    In a ragged jacket
and filthy chinos   he’s steady
on his feet

        I watch him study reflections
of reeds and sky in the shallow stream
edged by rocks and debris

                             His gaze turns
toward the tree I love   the cherry
with a hole all the way through its trunk—
….that separate dead part of itself
…… must find a way around

                                What remains
leans into the north wind
….channels air  birds  insects
…….through the emptiness
………sap pushing up into buds—

                                    coiled nubs
like soft wounds tip its branches
….light-seeking  somehow sure
……..bound to unseen roots

Mary Buchinger