Now we have the minerals out of the way.
The next poem is called "December Cottonwoods."
With all your leaves on the ground, crisp and golden
and you naked perpendicular as if you just
stepped out of them, I find your poverty to my liking.
They reach almost to my knees, listen to me walking.
Looking hard in your branches, I see many old faces.
But the ones with hungry looks turn away.
Nothing left to give them.
I want to be within you trees like a dancer or the wind
making you move.
That way I could help you grow back your lost leaves.
My sap would run out to the end of your limbs
yet always there would be those to complain that I
wore my bark like chainmail.
But why give up your leaves unless it
is to spend a season waiting?
Or could it be the leaves wave of goodbye
to show the rest of us how to let go,
atheists who believe only in the letter of ourselves.