I was sitting inside my 2006 Saturn Vue
in my parent’s garage, and you calmed me.
You are the same tree
that knew me, then. Myself.
I was a bleeding child inside. My purple
ideas were smashed silent by Grandpa Mose’s fists.
Now, you are bruised and missing pieces of yourself.
Somehow you are still standing outside, rooted.
Alive. I know I need to see you this way,
to see myself more clearly.
You are your own behind my granddaddy Silas’
fading red fence, needling the sky’s breath. Medicine,
you are woodworking. With all my reverence I praise
your knotted parts. I ask
permission to cut
your needles, to boil them.
I ask you to bless my new home.