What we do so the tree conserves its stores inward—
before winter, or right at the end; which is to say, in almost 
spring. Meanwhile, in a pot on the corner of the deck, 
the citrus plant named after a part of the Buddha's anatomy
sports new spikes. It has never flowered. But if you crush
a leaf and hold it under your nose, it gives you a hot, 
dry day in summer in the middle of a lemon grove. 
You also believe we carry such largeness inside us, 
though we are clumsy. And fear scrunches our shoulders 
together, drives us to panic buy toilet paper and eggs 
though the world has never not always been ending.
Because of this, we listen in the night for the sound 
of each other breathing, for the way leaves rustle
and overlap like shingles but remain translucent.

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