Shambled hum of the canopy working a rhythm. I do not have the same ambition as the earth, my hair breaks like branch ends, the sky dulls, a robin’s voice peals against the sides of homes. This tree is no longer young, crooked and a hollow worn into the bole, slow to foliate. Marrow-boned clouds oscillate above the tree, as afternoon lilts into the murk of another evening. Each ring, each collision with the sky a bite in the horizon line.
About this Poem
Ashley-Elizabeth Best is a disabled poet and essayist from Kingston.