How do you describe the emptiness above

the shingle & tar & threads

of power lines, the bark dabbed in with lichen,

the capillary beds

of branches—bronchioles—more blue

between them now? Though rain will come

late afternoon, drumming into my child’s nap

(water running, she’ll wake dreaming), for now

blank space arcs above me in forget-me-

not petals. Fans in the clouds. The lungs are

the light organ. We float, we float, they say.

No need to cover your lips and noses.

Now you must cover your lips and noses.

Paisley bandanas. Shoelace ear loops.

Faces on screens like shadows in the water.

If you look through

the woods, layers and layers of  limbs.

Song sometimes.

When I kneel underneath

to hold her hand and turn my face

sunward I want to see through

the bark—bluebells and seeds,

grubs twisting into yellow moons.

The tree was going to come down.