Poetry was the oak trees and the dogwoods
Grown brutal in the dark red of autumn;
Our bodies passed over into faith, our
Skin broken, our blood sloughed on the floor.
We once had a love that could part
Our breastsbones, seize us deep
In the heart. But mother, father:
Open-handed, I have lost you, and I no longer
Remember who I was; how rain and snow
And sun could purify me. Someone
Restore me. Someone restore this gift:
The naked birch, our devotion.