Lucy Alexander # 60 Wood Flower

All in one day these tiny circles marking the toothsome tree

up until it was bitter or too hard to pulp or the bark grew tight

back then, to the soft filaments, fibers just tough enough

the tree’s own pattern back and forth like scratching,

or as if you were lost among the tree’s long calendar

of up and out and restless leaves bing tinkered by the wind

maybe there was a song, there, too sung slow supersonic

the wood mite’s lullaby, and sleep will come and borrow you

look at the flower you carved as a larvae look at the petal

the stalk the tree’s own beginning and its reason.