In the dark knotted limbs of my childhood oak tree,
there is a band of rings, each a finger-width wide,
measuring the years of growth. Inside every year of growth
is a year of your existence, an existence I discovered one day
not by accident, but by habit, like following a trail of breadcrumbs
to find you sitting cross-legged in a forest with that smile
I always loved. That smile I loved till it stopped breaking across your face.
You are a work in progress. Like the universe, you’re going to keep expanding.
You are not finished yet.
You’ll cry into your soup some days, and I’ll name the soup after you,
and kiss your mouth until it stops quivering.
When you want to slash the umbilical cord of your own existence,
I’ll stand against that giant oak tree and watch as the chainsaw
draws nearer. They’ll have to cut me down too
before they get to you.
The truth is, this will ache. But if ache turns to break, I’ll mend the bones.
So let the hanging rope find its way down;
let the roof open its arms to your falling body.
I’ll save you every time.