The sycamore is dressed for evening.
Her emerald fruits like drop earrings
toss in the breeze, her leaves flash
in all directions like green sequins.
No one is watching. A curtsy
seems only fitting.
I mimic her dancer’s arms
and strathspey past,
meet a honeylocust in my corner
bearded with rough lenticels.
Seedpods rustle like tassels
or bells at his sides. We set and cast.
I think of my new dance class
off Hickory Street,
how each time Jane and I
pass right shoulders, she looks up
smiling as though meeting me
for the very first time.
How kind, I think, stumbling
through my steps the whole way
and trying to find myself
in the right place at the right time.
Our dances are named for bluebells
and willows, and I think why not?
Today, I greet each tree this way,
reciting their names as I go.
Aza Pace’s poems appear or are forthcoming in The Southern Review, Copper Nickel, Tupelo Quarterly, Crazyhorse, New Ohio Review, Passages North, Mudlark, Bayou, and elsewhere. Read more.