Song of the Oyamel

On the other side of this door

You are an oyamel native to the mountains of Mexico

Rising in a cloud forest of sister evergreens

Shedding pollen cones, shedding winged seeds

Our lost wings

                    singly and in pairs.

This is why the monarchs vanish    

Raising sienna-hued colonies longer than my arms

Hibernating in Mexico where it’s hotter in January

                than my front yard, where the red bougainvillea raves

And magnolias             with a mauve rush on paper

And open as though thinking about last year’s novels

Read over the shoulders of garden-strollers

Obey the apostle’s exhortation

And do everything in love.