Green

It was hot; I decided to stain three
       boards newly replaced on the deck,

their ghosts having rotted through 
       in the center, along their length. 

But the heart of the tree is still green
        even after it's hewn into lumber—

meaning, it carries a hidden store of
        moisture. Combed from a forest

holding rain, enveloped in humid
        shawls of fog, the heart of the tree

does not die easy. I can't tell what the birds
        see: the masts of a boat, the rungs of

a ladder, a quiver full of arrows? What
         is anything, before it dies in place.