Pinus contorta (poem)

My love, let me lean into the wind
of your grief and desire
with the grace of a twisted shore pine.

Let me bend like a tree
against the force of your emptiness,
and you and the sky and the island beneath
can shape me into a story I will tell
with the whole of my body,
in the language of weather and loss.

When the story is done, love,
turn to joy and a wave, and sweep clean
this place where stories are born.

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