Bald Tree

I had grown up beside a bald tree. 

Whether be it the spring
or full moon,
the tree watched its days
in stillness of 
impotent life

And over it,
spirits shuffled in the night
when the yellow bulb of the house flickered
and mother would cry,
the pigeons were dead under the AC
and the dogs ran like wolves

The lights went out in the powerhouse
a beast shook the floor,
my mother hid under the pillows

but I remained still 
Very still,
like the bald tree.

Sunlight in the field

There was a color in the woods
of the sun
threading into the plant life
and leaving soft insect trails of
grass burnt too golden
till the grass, she flew
out in a solitary vapor
of the broad open sky
of no people,
no momentum.