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.