As if these gravestones were once a forest

between each there’s still the breeze

from wood and leaves and winter

 

though under your fingertips the initials

warm, are already stretching out

the way a beginner tree wants to be lit

 

then at its highest even in the cold

grows a small stone that will ripen

and stay red for the arrow

 

carved around two rivers and the heart

brought closer, smelling from the caress

that is not a blouse or its ashes.