Palo Verde
I see one blossom at the far tip of high limb—
a thought of enlightenment.
Each of the five green trunks expands
like a crooked truth.
Each branch, hard and gnarled,
erupts from the center.
The cactus wren loves the middle branch.
He is the only tenant and
perches there, a stiff ornament.
The tree shelters the aloe and the gopher plant
the ground filled with brittle leaves.
A wren that had taken the middle way
explodes in a tumult of feathers.
The branch makes a soft green river—
a tree is nothing next to the mountain,
as the weight of the bird
is nothing next to the branch.
And the soul, both the tree’s and mine,
is even less, almost nothing
yet it is everything.
GERALDINE CONNOLLY has published five poetry collections including Food for the Winter, Province of Fire, Hand of the Wind and Aileron (Terrapin Books). Read more.