Because my first memories are of trees, swaying, standing, bare, and in leaf

Their dappled light, their quiet song, their give, their break

The pattern of their bark pressed against my skin

Their beauty when falling.

For the heat of it, when it dries and burns

The smell of cedar and Douglas fur

The hardness of oak

The quick catch of pine.

That its strength isn’t lost when it dies.

That it endures the nails and screws

Can be held together.  Frame a life

Frame a home.

That part of me is wood too, my living framework.

My bones, like trees, slow growers, willing to meld

with the clean cadaver bone, screws and brackets

to build me a new heel, a new shoulder, a new leg.

Willing to take the three-inch screw

into it, and willing to let it go. Letting

me know, exactly where and how deep

inside a bone goes.

Jks  March 2025