Fathoms
There will be days
when
no matter how wise or willing
your step
only a tree can contain
the sky that would drown you,
vast in its blinding expanse,
swirling your grief
in its fathoms.
Look down.
Follow your ebb to its tree
feet, unmoving in the waving
grass,
where leaves rise like bubbles
or hands
opened, dropped from stripped branches
changed,
like you,
by change.
You are safe here
in its rooted
harbor,
held in these tentacular arms,
each drawing you closer
as a swell curls within
so that you
break
among kin,
pressed into
new,
a joining
of what lifts
with bright depths
a sky that
embraces
itself.
]]>