Course
The tree-book tells me death: how the life of a tree
is its path toward disintegration. Or something technical
like that. What I
especially liked tonight (for I consult this book
from time to time, remaining fairly ignorant): how to rub
the bark.
They mean: create a naturalist's record; I mean: take a crayon,
make a child's art.
At twelve, plaid-blanket afternoons
looking up at clouds, considering their shapes (as in puppy;
not cumulonimbus, which my father taught me; he's a pilot;
I consider that too).
Leaves I collected and pressed
for the school project, but couldn't identify, except for
five.
Maple, oak. Today I
add gingko. "Lucky you," said
the woman
at the doctor's office when I called for my biopsy report.
She meant, because I work at home. Almost like a child.
I could put my blankie on the
floor, as in kindergarten.
I'm
the teacher, turning out the lights; I'm the toddler napping.