by Jenifer Cartland
Yesterday our oak came down and left a scar, where today . . .
Jenifer
Blackberries spill and bleed across dry paper — seem to foretell . . .
A fig tree grows in the shaded crevice of a white-washed pipe — . . .
I return again to try to draw your branches — . . .
Sometimes a line, or one missing, or a trumpet’s sigh far off, stray, . . .
The harbor breeze dangles the torn screen, teases me . . .
