If you squint, tree branches look fuzzy,Brushes raised against...

If you squint, tree branches look fuzzy,
Brushes raised against the sky,
Soft to the touch.
If you see them from the highway,
Unsquinting, you will see them as most do:
Tall, gnarly, rough and unmoving.
And if you get up close, and I mean,
close—when your chin rests on the rough bark
and the height no longer fazes you—
you will see more. Bark that breaks off
in your hands. Branches that poke
into your clothes, keeping you from
climbing further.
One secret I may tell: the day,
and not a moment before, but the very
day you take that deep breath,
forget the ground below and the shaking of
your knees and instead reach your hand to the highest
nearest branch, hoist your body higher,
then higher, chestagainsttree, and
facetotheheavens, at the top, on the waving
hands of twigs and leaves, you will see

green growing, small.
There, the leaves will shine, new,
fresh as babies faces; unshaken survivors of
winter blasts, because they hid in the recesses of bark and moss and dead pieces, which tied them
unbreaking, to life.
When you cling, nails digging intodry tree skin, take note of how it

feels to survive.

[I wrote this one a long time ago…]