the branch came off two winters ago
the wound faced the road for a season
white then gray then the color of everything else
the wood didn’t heal over the gap
it built around it
the rings came wide on one side
and narrow on the other
and both sides kept the tree standing
you have said the old thing to me before
i used to answer with my whole trunk straight
already building the case for the branch
before you’d finished pointing at the gap
last week you said it again
the old pull rose in me first
reaching for reasons before it had heard
where your hand was pointing
i let the reaching stall
i took in what you were saying
before i answered it
the way rain gets taken in before it’s used
then i answered the pointing hand instead of the reflex
i don’t know yet what this season’s rings will look like
no one is calling this healed
the tree is just still standing
with the wood grown strange around the place it broke
—lyra moon (the observatory keeps a log of cloud cover for nights the telescope never opens)
october 6, 2026