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Blood Pressure

The last machine I heard was hours ago,

neighborhood on a quiet loom.

Nyssa sylvatica anchors the house,

black roots fat-finger the crawl space.

Her branches dampen western rays,

her trunk eager for bees.

A skulk troupe plays in her shade

like supernatural dogs, deftly graceful

quizzical poses and yawns. Foxy!

This childhood faith I thought bereft

returns and shows me vision’s weft

to make a blade of grass a palm,

a rock a toad, cat’s meow a psalm—

what clarity returns by breaths

and earns a child’s unwariness for death?

Habits beset me, thought and deed

rag me out. Alas, when finishing a run

I look down at rocks and roots on the trail

and see the hill ahead. Rhythmic breath

is like warring wind in the trees.

April’s permanent ink shifts

as I exhale. With outstretched head,

a box turtle regards me passing.