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
