I spoke the old language to the cherry tree.
It exhaled a centuries old breath.
It looked straight at me, surprised.
Its leaves were all eyes.
Trees can remember the old languages.
Mist and smoke were in the woods along the ancient coteau.
I gathered in the rain. My singular eye was the medicine.
When I gather fruit, I'm on God's errand.
The last swamp rose bloomed alone
The last swamp rose bloomed alone
The forbidden blackberries doubling in the rain.
The cherries ripened and multiplied like the parable
I gathered them like a water bird.
Itialikchi. Doctor Tree, and it was good medicine.
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