An eye-like impression on Boo’s birch bark
Keeps innocent watch where he sleeps
Or sits alone.
White. Shingled, peeling, always in the midst of it.
The shedding is a constant shaping. Summer is closed.
School begins, winds blow & bend. Boo attends.
There are no photographs to share. People ask us nothing.
He would be starting sixth grade but for this:
Branching cells inside, neuron dances gone awry,
Whipping leaves that lash & cut, pull & fall…
And yet for two days now the birch has stood
And Boo walks in happy imitation, his mood impermanent as paper
(Covers rock, loses to the scissors)
His mood impermanent as paper.