Four Years By The Fronds

It takes enough energy
for me to raise my head
in the mornings.

To saddle tape over my two
broken nails, to fog the mirror
so I see my breath

instead of my parents' eyes
in my eyes.

On the first day,
dropping my feet to the floor,
I missed the slippers
and settled onto cold ivory

in the way two birds
might return home
and overshoot their nest.

Touching, for the first time,
the brown-brick trunk
that has always held them.

The Spanish women outside
are talking about their daughters

back home
and the dresses they bought for them.

The men are inflating their gut
like blowfish.

The children are darning socks
that the moths have chewed through,

pulling out pollen
from underneath their computer keys.

They learn that the tree is shaped
by its own seed
as much as it is
by the vacant sky around it.

They learn how now and then,
the seed won't flourish
under all the shell husks and soil.

How it can sit buried
for an entire lifetime
while people walk over it.