names for the tree facing my window
almost within reach, elastic
with squirrels, memory banks, homes.
Castagnotook itself to heart, its pods
like urchins clung to where they landed
claiming every bit of shadow
at the hem.Chassagne, on windier days,
nervous in taffeta gowns,
whispering, on the verge of being
anarchic, though well bred.
And thenchestnut, whipped pale and clean
by all the inner reservoirs
called upon to do their even share of work.
It was not the kind of tree
got at by default—imagine that—not one
in which only the remaining leaf