alone on my birthday at the arboretum in madison, wi.
and i want to feel some kind of touch
so i reach out to the larch, the weeping
kind, barely budding as it grows
away from the sun— and don’t we all
have some days when we prefer clouds,
when we let our hair grow toward the earth.
don’t we all wish clovers grew at our feet.
so in this weeping
larch i find a friend, for today at least.
oh friend, the north is no place for me.
please don’t reach for me when the wind moves you,
let your hair reach instead into the soil
to collect dead leaves from the less coniferous
who surround you— i am sorry
for only knowing you before your bloom.
before knowing your color was green
and that weeping is beautiful, too.
j.t. andrews (he/him) is a poet from Texas, but he is unfortunately not a cowboy. He currently lives in Colorado, where he works on self-portraiture and building bookshelves. His work has appeared in perhappened magazine and horse egg literary.