The tree is intricate, a lattice
with many moving parts: sparrows,
robins, a blackbird’s creak.
The ox in the sky pulls the plow.
The archer strings his one good
arrow across the bow. The dipper’s
hinged against the lip of the grassy well.
And I have only my hungry heart, my
wobbly heart: I cart it everywhere I go.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.