There are so many ways to walk through a forest—
through clover clusters, along a boardwalk
lined with skunk cabbages—to a field where we listen
to a ghost of song. The hypergreen we step through
is the opposite of Los Angeles on fire.
Any tree can become a ladder. These trees
have too many branches, but it is not my place
to revise them. I may be happiest
improvising the language a body can make
on a dancefloor. We are just learning
how female birds sing in the tropics.
Spring insists we can build the world
around us again. How has love brought you here?
My head is heavy from the crown.
We dream or don’t dream and sing
in different keys. Don’t go down the river
without looking back. There is ocean in that tree.