We all grow into 
forests one day, 


songbirds in our branches 


and children hopping from
root to root shrieking and 
our toes will still know the earth. 

 

This is certain:


the sun rises, magenta and 
orange at seven oh two
am on the dot and


the gala apples are 
ripe red and round in 
our fists, fingers. 

 

The air we breathe is 
entirely composed of stories 
and it settles around our ankles like


fresh spring mulch