My father sits huddled
in his winter mind
stubble and chill
have aged him
I gather him in
to skirts as full
as I am—no longer a girl
but willow strong
gathering all my pretty
ones: poems and dreams
I call out father
who was oak
father who was tree
I reach for you
with twigs and nestlings
small gray doves to sing
in your branches
I billow my skirts
and send them flying
up up up
through your spare hours
your brittle leaves
you, whose song turns
back on itself and chokes
mute and stammering

Harvest I say
harvest come home
there is plenty for you here