Waiting, one feels time
like space, the way one speaks of a tree,
meaning not, as here in this yard,
the fat trunk of a beech that bulges
before its branches begin
to branch—
Meaning rather the loss we hide
by counting up:
Up, the way the tree grows,
or the way we speak of the mountain,
forgetting the roots, the other side—
Tree as in family free, or tree
as dreamed, as if in a place like this,
this yard, this garden, the leaves coming out
of the bulbs—
Time like a mountain, an island
on land, the tree,
a ripened fruit as large
as the hand that holds the yellow half,
or the other hand, that scoops
the fat black seeds.
