I stand here by the grace of my scars.
See the burl on my trunk’s downhill-side where
I isolated an infection into
the pupil of a wooden eye.
All I have to say is, ‘see?’
So, see the vertical line of my trunk;
broken by my boughs.
I am implicated by gravity’s law:
the dead bird beneath my limbs and
the needles I’ve dropped over him;
I’d do as much for you.
How well do I remember that bird?
Not well, they all move so fast.
My male and female pinecones
on the ground together,
sex, sex, sex everywhere.
Where is the love in this law?
Still, I claim innocence.
Indifference is one of my gifts.
I am in the business of enfolding light,
absorbing water and minerals,
releasing my all as seeds.
I’m not proud of my scars.
My wood can rot or burn for all I care.
I tell you we are both blessed
to have made it this far
with anything to lose.