The tree my grandpa couldn’t carry
My body is sick again and I am reminded
of that tree downed in the storm, laying
on its side for all those years.
I remember how my grandfather’s
grainy hands tried to bring it back,
the bark settled into the ground.
I told him he couldn’t do it on his own, pretended
it had nothing to do with age, but everything
to do with the rain and the ground that sinks
everything up in it. It is almost quicksand, I said,
like the child I was knowing
nothing about the effects of time
or how tired my grandfather felt as he lifted
his hands to something like sky
and told me it was his way of praying.