Shantih Journal 3.1 - Page 86

Upon Placing the Heart of the Sun Behind Birch Leaves brian baumgart 86 You’d think the mother would hold her eyes tight against skin of the lowest root; you’d think breath would tap its toes from months away; you’d think a whisper would be the loudest cry; you’d know the buzz of spring in every bird’s lungs. The birch, this naked skeleton of March, perfect perch for slight feet, offers itself, with paper skin alternating between tight and peeling: this is the way I hope to be.