I pass over the police tape
and enter his yard
I wonder if the flicker of light in
the corner of my eye
is from him peering out through his curtains
or from a candle he has left lit on the table.
I sift through his garbage, his apple-bin
I climb his ladder up his apple tree just to see how it feels
I examine his woodchuck holes
to see if he, like Frost, is sleeping,
or if we will have six more weeks of winter.
The police are questioning a little boy
about climbing trees
as Truth broke in
But I am studying the trees themselves,
the birches;
bending while ascending.
This article appears in February 2016.
