Conversation with Trees

The backyard, winter
I am in a towel
in the porch light

The pool listens from under its blue tarp
hears nothing
the trees stare as if
they don’t recognize me

watching steam
rise off my arms and chest

I say, Woods you know me
They say, Not like this

Learned to become cold-blooded is all, I say
as if I could fool them,
throwing off steam like a damp sun

They ask, What is cold?

and I laughed,
because when you define cold for trees
you can’t say shivering
or numb

You have to feel what a tree would feel
see light as food
warmth as feeling full

and cold would be no leaves with which to eat
cold as forgetting how to eat
how to even want to
cold as the wind slipping through you
with no trouble,
nothing to catch on

Oh no, they say, You are warm!
You are warm! they say, like the children of a sad parent

I ask, Then how can I make it out here? in the cold?
and they think for a minute
as I stare up into the light
a few moths on the bulb

Because you’re asking, they say.
Because you can still feel it.

— 2012