Fir Tree

With broken wrist: You lay on the floor, Belly full of iron grit.

Through all Sunday Evening, crawling On your ninety-year knees— Hard linoleum Turning at last To avocado chenille. Not the kitchen, The living room— Gain the softer ground.

Do not call For help, you said. Gripping strips of sanity, Resolute Throughout the night. Is that enough for you?

You’ve made a virtue Out of spite, Tossing it in age’s face— Proof, perhaps, That God, who spread A sycamore by a stream, Was pleased to bind A knotted fir To Appalachia’s crest To writhe for eons, Twisting limbs in Restless mountain wind

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