Fir Tree

With broken wrist:
You lay on the floor,
Belly full of iron grit.
Through all Sunday
Evening, crawling
On your ninety-year knees—
Hard linoleum
Turning at last
To avocado chenille.
Not the kitchen,
The living room—
Gain the softer ground.

Do not call
For help, you said.
Gripping strips of sanity,
Throughout the night.
Is that enough for you?

You’ve made a virtue
Out of spite,
Tossing it in age’s face—
Proof, perhaps,
That God, who spread
A sycamore by a stream,
Was pleased to bind
A knotted fir
To Appalachia’s crest
To writhe for eons,
Twisting limbs in
Restless mountain wind

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