The Year I Stopped Looking Up

The oak has grown a belly, thick and rough,

and hangs its heavy limbs above the street.

I looked at where the bark is getting tough

and felt the grounding of my heavy feet.

I used to trust the lift, the pull, the sway,

the gold and sticky smear of resin on my skin.

That pine-sap glue that wouldn't wash away

until the summer wore itself quite thin.

Now there’s a sign that says to keep away,

a wire fence where I used to run so free.

I don't believe the branch would let me stay.

I don't believe in the gravity of me.