For several days
my morning commute
was shoving your favorite
tree down my throat
into these tarnished lungs
where it mixed with smoke
before that heavier merge.
I understand now
why you like it best.
Deciduous and round
its roots reach north and south
from that interstate median
for a way under the pavement.
It's not the most majestic
but rather, if a spaceman
one thousand years from tonight
were to summon the ancient archives
in search of the meaning of "tree"
that's the image that'd appear
on the screen affixed to his wrist
whereas mine, though unidentified
is leaning somewhere
out over a river, its trunk protruding
from a split in stone left by glaciers
defying gravity and statistics
a tattered rope tied to a limb
that's held the weight of children
for generations
and most importantly
not yet found
by the one
I still must protect.
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