To the Saint of Gerstle Park

That day, I take a leaf of yours, flame

red—seal it in a book, and place

it in my pack. All afternoon, I feel it burn

a hole through the binding, taste crisp

edges of dirt and sap.

In your boughs, your whispered prayers

surely reach God’s ears.

My ribs brick into a forge, lungs for bellows

fan the leaf song, small like swollen

end of cherry iron. Warble step

by half step—my soot-lined spine grows

warm, smells of hickory kindling stacked.

Blocks from your shelter, the wind charges 

and snuffs the notes, charred ribs black

into earth—the singed body holds

so thinly. Tongue is smoldering

old ashes in the mouth.

In your boughs, your whispered prayers

surely reach God’s ears.

Back among your roots, my knees now bleed

on muddied concrete—I lost

all leaves—of course I scour

too low, looking for a sign—green

shoot to kiss

Pray for us, that we may have

flaming hands like yours.