A light that plumes from stump
to pane. A light, too soon,
not time to break, no time
to sink. Shadows, no,
don’t fracture glass—don’t
shimmy up from trunk
to crown and drink its sap
then faucet back. Don’t descend
its walnut bark, don’t lick
cement—not yet. Leave alone
the gated steps, leave
the shutterless door
to rest—forget the footprints
that quake the hush. We ache
for June, for sweetened
tea, when flowers have yet
to birth the bees.
Published June 2019