THREEFOLD, three-stemmed, Thrice

for River Birch


It’s exposing, watching people watching me watching a tree. Does it feel exposing

for you too? I tried writing a villanella for you, an old Italian song. It was mean, it was empty and isolating. None of the rhymes were perfect. I need to understand more keenly what you smell like before I can be permitted to write you a song. You are contained, leaning slightly and held back with invisible wires. Pruning, grooming, growing wires.

You are entirely public. Your soul, or lack of one, is highly exposed. It becomes more exposed with every folio that flakes away. You are obviously lovely, eternally inoffensive (to those without allergies). I find myself so tied to the romance of being “drawn”

to you. I wasn’t drawn to you. I picked quickly, the right one, you surrounded by your siblings, you living in threes. I’m seduced by your texture, the way you looked at night, snow blanketing one side. You’re obviously lovely. You’re one step from breaking into brick. You’re two steps from water. You’re always in a rush and choking back a breath. All these spindly twigs, fresh red bark and unstretched lenticels, little spots, I could let them be frost, Oh, you’re obviously lovely. I spit love at you from the heat of my mouth, it freezes on impact, cold space between us, my cold hands that make it hard to draw you for long. I apologize for the lack of romance. These pen scratches still confound me; a knife taken to every exposed curve. I have to assume they’re self-generated, a byproduct of your shedding. There are too many, they are too careful, to be from another attentive human. I apologize for mentioning us. I apologize for the conditions

of your existence. I’m sorry I always look at you. When I try to write you a poem,

I’ll apologize for the abstraction. I’ll apologize for my imposition, personification, emotion. You just stand tall, straight, flexible, you stand in threes. Your branches are threads. You contain no gesture, you build a nest for air. Shedding paper, and thread,

and all sorts of things I need. I’m dreaming of smelling you. Dreaming of my face pressed against cold paper, dried now, latent snow-dampness gone with new sun.

After this, I’ll smell you. I can imagine it, I can feel your bark under my hand as I lean close. I wonder what your water tastes like. I imagine: sweet cold liquid, finer than water, this round clean woodiness, and Oh, isn’t that a way to describe the taste of a tree.

I can’t describe you without using you in my language.


I have the thought that I like being afforded your undivided attention. I like when it’s all for me, and when mine is all for you. It feels so impermanent, and fleeting, for us to share this mutual attention. I’m running or you’re running, yet we’re never running at the same time, and never towards each other. The scale of your sprints makes it impossible to even notice mine. We could be about the same size, but you’re much taller, and slower, and maybe older than I am. Without intervention, older than I’ll be.




I confess that I smelled you. I leaned over snow to smush my nose and mouth against your paper and breathe in, I breathed in warmth from you, you halted my intake of cold. I can’t say I had expectations, but your scent was unsurprising. Your taste was stunning yet familiar, and your scent slotted neatly into place. If I go back and smell you again, maybe you’ll let me write you a song. I won’t be able to sing it to you; there’s dry white air in my throat.




The only tree I’ve known to speak was one across the street, diagonally down from where you live. It spoke to my friend in the dark, and then it spoke to me.

That tree lived alone, though. I bet you don’t even need to speak. You in threes. You, surrounded by you. What good could a voice do …