The Ash is common enough –
with keys the wind misplaces
and in winter, velvet leaf buds
that recall those long
black gloves I wore,
to trace your trembling
outline – neck to hip
and down a little more.
Its fissured bark is
a history of cuts, as if
the past can be sloughed
like a worn out coat.
As green leaves fell
I glimpsed a woman
in the golden copse,
or maybe a hare.
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First published by Algebra Of Owls 2018