Attached to the young tree,
skin smooth green of palo verde.
Hands placed there take in tree breath.
Clean small air. Each whisper

moves as though young wind, small yield, thin motion.
Hear vibrato-free immersion in the simple as it grows.
A viable array of shores and slate lanes.
Stand. Seek. Can't thank . . . enough.

What sufficiency we know:
a single tree is here. Scene stiffens into
violet mistake
to watch or reach at dusk.

Husk tones hold bravado
as the cusp of winter hinges bravery.
I brush my spine to your connection to the earth.
Your generosity and tame net worth.