Mid-Thirties Square Dance

Walking home God peeled a major eucalyptus to the ground.

Genuinely uncertain, he asked

                                                 Can a life be undone

Yes         I said. You don’t say no to God.

A tendon in my left foot once ran

all the way up my leg to the knee, but where it stops now

no doctoring hands can tell.

At thirty-four I have ticked every box I set out to.

My mistake was thinking I could be loved

in little white squares.

I fold corners of pages I try to read as I walk.

They bounce off me like a metal sun.

After dropping my daughter off

I am passed by those who can walk without thinking.

God,

since before I was born your trees have pushed up

under my soles

deforming my arches.

                                    How steep my urge for awe grows.

My daughter echoes

See you after she passes the preschool gate

and cannot see me.

A variety of tree types do-si-do around me.

Still human in appearance to others

I try not to show I am already outlived

standing very still on my threadbare unmystical tendon

with what awe actually is.