when i was little i wanted to grow up
to be a tree, did i ever tell you that?
there was an oak tree next to my house
and i loved her like she had given me
my skin, used to plant tulips at her feet
and sing to her on the coldest days
of winter so she would know i hadn't
forgotten about her as soon as the first
day got shorter. i thought if i breathed
with her long enough i would learn to
be tall, learn to be sturdy, learn that wind
is nothing but a momentary nuisance.
i would stand at her base and let the sun
that rippled through her leaves paint
freckles on my nose while i reached my
arms up toward the clouds like vines,
thought i could bend and stretch and make
a home for the birds and the butterflies.

my dad always told me there is no such
thing as something that is too far away.
there are always cars, always boats and
trains and ladders. if you want something
bad enough, he would say, distance
doesn't exist. but an ocean. but an ocean.

sometimes i think i could feel you in my
fingertips before i knew you. like when
i was stretching up to the endless sky,
you were pulling from somewhere else. i
wonder if the me who wanted to be a home
for the earth knew she'd grow up to want
to be a home for you.