Mighty winds and orange skies
were times for bowed branches
and pecan prayer:
Woe is the cracked nut
for its fruitfulness was robbed
by tongues craving umami.
Bless the winds which trim our excess.
We store our leaves and forsaken nuts
in deep-rooted memory. Selah.
How rectangular the lawn
where Kiowa and Elliot had grown,
bulwark trees with rooftop shade
for concrete concessions,
gregarious gnats, and thrashers
trite with their arguing.
Crouched men stared
with a fire ant grimace
for hugs that palpitate.
The pecan trees never celebrated
human victories, but their leaves whistled
at every buzz that ended the game.
