the tree—
how clear its edges are, no limb
obscured by motion. we sit where the largest branch
dips. i climbed first, moved over so you could sit next to me—
death making room for life,
as much as possible;
but falling headfirst would be too much room.
if it is my own will binding me,
i cannot be saved.
what am i to you?
a twig for your nest?
dry, leafless thing, placed delicately;
a marker of spring?