Immersed by the force of felled leaves—
heavy-handed steel at high-altitude:
offloads brocade green fringe
"trimming”
the fig’s crown
Science has not proved trees are sentient.
So, when I hear whispers between my tall friends,
my therapist might say I have a botanical
countertransference
I remember my father in a forest of eucalyptus,
pine & spruce in our Tijuana backyard,
wearing a white terry robe, embarrassing
towel with Spanish beret matching
his black moustache, reading the paper
until pigeon splatter chased him
away— as he grew sicker, around
groves in Balboa Park, how our Datsun
sniffed like a dog
for the right spot to listen to Mahler
Barren of its foliage
the fig tree now stripped
into thick bones,
I tell myself:
It is not my marrow
running inside its arms & legs
Daughter of a Spanish Civil War refugee, Milagros writes in the Tijuana-San Diego border region. She retired seven years ago from international corporate consultancy, was previously a Child & Family Counselor, and has produced local TV documentaries. She recently obtained an MFA from SDSU where she collaborates with author interviews at Poetry International. She is currently in the Master’s program in Escuela de Escritores based in Madrid. Her published work can be seen at https://www.milagros-vilaplana-poeta.com/