Like nine men stood in a circle, threw spears at the same spot of ground,
and the spears grew into a tree ---
like an old hand,
like an upside down, petrified giant squid
          with its head buried in brown dirt,
like nine crooked, branchy masts
the tree out my window ----
half its leaves are dead & dangle like little brown crispy bells;
half its leaves are green & on underside have yellow veins.
It's fall, October.
Under its shade, shadows of windblown leaves flutter on packed, cold dirt.
Top three branches like a trident against blue sky
          (three small clouds track past),
Top of the top leaf, a sharp angle,
At bottom, nine trees growing in different
           directions from the same spot, gnarled roots,
           old and  twisted.
Branches sway with the wind.
The trunks are still.
"Why are you writing poems?" he says.

                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 *--- Burlington, 2013