Buried under a stack of reading, the couch is your burrow.
But then you look out of your window and see this.
You catch a glimpse of your rose bush, an orange flame tilted upward at the same sky.
You can't resist.
You are taken in by
not yet ripe, but promising something
So now you have the courage to leave your house and visit your favorite neighborhood tree--
a tree you think of as a vanquished giant rammed headfirst into the earth by an enemy
strong legs visible while his heart beats beneath the ground
eyes and mouth and nose filled with dirt.
The leaves he drops are offerings
and you bring one home to remind you of something but you're not sure what
so you make an offering of it too.
And when you stand at your patio gate
you see the beauty of all of it
and you give thanks to your made-up gods--
to the guardian of the camellias
and to the god of yellow
and the gray god of rain
because when he stops hurting you
the world looks like this