Long Finger Poem

I’m working on my poems and working with   

my fingers not my head. Because my fingers

are the farthest stretching things from me.

Look at the tree. Like its longest branch

I touch the evening’s quiet breathing. Sounds   

of rain. The crackling heat from other trees.

The tree points everywhere. The branches can’t   

reach to their roots though. Growing longer they

grow weaker also. Can’t make use of water.

Rain falls. But I’m working with these farthest stretching

things from me. Along my fingertips bare shoots   

of days then years unfurl in the cold air.