The trees, my god,

by Zoe Boyer

maples hurling green-fletched samaras, 
the whole yard struck and waiting to rise forest,  

elms generous with their golden coins; lilacs 
wild over the windfall, foaming at the branch. 

At thirteen my brother wore glasses 
for the first time and wondered at the trees— 

hadn’t known you were meant to see midribs, 
toothed margins, the thousand leaves lapped 

lobe over stem like the scales of some great beast.
Once my world was veinless, without heartbeat,  

the brain’s bad weather clouding my sight. 
When at last I found a drug to spell my grief, 

I saw the stark grace of leaves unfurled
like hands outstretched in benediction.  

Praise the winged ears of catalpa, chestnuts serving 
whipped cream blossoms, sumacs strung like  

prayer beads. I count them now—my blessings, 
branch-borne and sailing to the earth: here, here, life. 

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Zoe Boyer was raised on the shore of Lake Michigan. She completed her MA in creative writing among the ponderosas in northern Arizona, and now lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. Her work has appeared in such publications as The New York Times, The Penn Review, Terrain.org, Pleiades, and Poetry South. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and selected as a finalist for Best of the Net.