Wake up and walk to the lumberyard, where time turns back and I find myself
tracing their shoulder blades with a fingertip again.
This is where your wings used to be.
The lines on my face belying age and agelessness,
telling so many forgotten stories.
Circles within circles–the only story I know to be true.
The infinite void at the center where the sky honors the fragments
and the fragments contain the whole.
This tree once a forest tower now stumped, a mighty mother come to rest
in shards and shavings, form transformed lending me a seat
from which to witness the rose-streaked morning.