in any country yard
under any melamine sky
where grass grows in patches
and rhubarb grows and stands watch
leaning there against a maple
an old wooden ladder
two wood-be branches
stretching
into the bough
of the standing
the leaning one finds rest
exhausted from the reaching
what the last rung knows
is what the first rung denies
what the farthest-reaching branch discovers
is told to the roots in rings
the ladder and the maple
leaning and accepting
wood against wood
waiting
I like the echo of sound and tihe feel of give and take I get from this poem…leaning, longing, reaching, giving…”told to the roots in rings.” There’s mystery there at the heart.