Apricot Press

The treetops in the clearing dusk hold a mystery,
and I can’t look at them right now,

listening to the sisters of First Aid Kit sing
and I’ve come to look for America,

but at this speed and in the periphery,
they do seem transpositions of

trees from any berm, Tennessee,
Maryland, Seattle, ghosts of themselves

gone searching for someone who looks
an awful lot like me,

growing taller as I breeze my gaze forward
and then humming back down to

where they will not seem to haunt us so
once the sun has stretched its arms a bit

and I can listen to this next one, a canticle
for a new start, or a swan song

to the self I’ve just left.

Photo credit: Fran