By Megan Willome
Sunday, and not one palm tree in plain sight. Pecan trees hold their green despite the drought. Crepe myrtle bushes grab heat’s every calorie with hot pink hands. There are no olive trees. Cedars hog the water — God! Give rain-justice! But warbler with the golden cheeks buzzes: I am old. This lowly tree is my home. Juniper woodlands are all I have known. Bird-child, ignore the experts who spread hate, whose grass shafts wound, who target from shade. The Tree-Maker makes a white sky respite above the mountains (you’d never guess it). Makes every tree a woman, full of nests. Makes bark a rock. Bears praises and laments.
About the Author
Megan Willome is the author of The Joy of Poetry, a memoir, and Rainbow Crow, a picture book of poems about crows. Her poems have appeared at Ekstasis, Every Day Poems, The Clayjar Review, and The Way Back to Ourselves. Her day is incomplete without poetry, tea, and a walk in the dark.
Makes bark a rock. Bears praises and laments.