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That tree must be lost—standing alone
—you can tell from the way it leans
and though this window is closed its glass
lets in the soft cries :these leaves

convinced they're looking up
—it's easy to lose your way in the air
and everything in motion—its roots
must have heard your eyes

filling with dirt as if the dead
still hold hands in a circle—you can see
—all by itself—it's tired
as sometimes birds till your tears

warm one another and the sky
rest in your arms—you will carry it back
counting the leaves, around and around
for leaves and closer.