At her fingertips

A worthy tree 
stepped out of her colors one evening,
ruffled cellophane papers,
and scattered the heavens' gifts
over children’s pillows.

She is the tree
who memorizes all the dates
and allows not
the seasons to beguile her.

She will chase the butterflies
That keep falling asleep on my papers 
and goad them to fly away
to where boundaries melt 
with the outlines of places.


There,
where meadows ignore names,
a basket is swinging,
with masked memories
and no alternatives,
held by angels’ hands
soon to be tossed into the air 

’O gentle fir,
show mercy
grant me more time,
for many a task
still calls.