Today I freed a black-eyed Susan
from a vine.
The slight tendril twisted about
the flower’s stalk, bending the plant
in a long, dreary arch toward the ground.
It is a small thing, to set a flower free.
In the great cycle of a forest’s growth
and decay, I do not know if it matters.
I do know this black-eyed Susan
now feels the sun on its face
instead of its back,
it no longer hovers over
brown leaf litter but
bobs under the blue of the sky.
And for this moment, my
breath comes easy.
Photo by: Minami Okamoto
This tree of my heart:
Her leaves are like
heavy green pears,
her body a congregation
of mayflowers.
Last summer I would
climb through my window
onto the roof
and eat my lunch next to her.
I did not appreciate her then.
I had not spent a winter with her,
watching the thin tangle of branches
bending under tiny walls of snow.
I had not seen her pregnancy,
the small buds tipping the limbs,
growing round and full
under torrents of rain.
Now she is more than cool shade,
more than my cat’s ladder.
She is the woman who lives next to me,
the mother of many green children.
Chali Davis 