Why do the wisteria-wrapped branches
look just like a cross?
Oh god, did it actually pull me out here?
Now I'm nervous, because I'm not ready
to talk about saviors and crucifixions,
"You don't have to," the trees tell me,
"Settle down, settle down."
I sit before the lone oak
on a strange, straight kitchen chair
I dragged out into the backyard.
And I stare.
At her trunk,
At her height.
Up into the spread of her
branches,
Two nearby scraggly cypress stare with me.
"We get it; we love her too."
Every plant nearby is a different age.
Some dying, some dead, some just born,
but most are like me.
Somewhere in the middle
just waking
to another day,
wondering
whether it'll be monotonous, perilous,
or miraculous.
Because we've all lived at least a thousand
of each by this age.
The dog barks behind us
wondering
why I am in a new spot
instead of the porch.
She cautiously creeps out to inspect me,
in case I've lost my mind.
Then, no lie, the other dog and the cat follow, and we become a congregation.
I whisper,
"You guys, you guys, this is Church.
This is Church.!"
But they don't react.
They were born knowing.