My lonely kin, we each begin 
on a dark and hostile forest floor 
then soar toward stratosphere 
in broccoli flower branching form. 

What scaffold riot, each of us, 
hardened bark from years of winter 
bullies, small fruit prolific every spring, 
whorls of it in spin descending  

to land where we ourselves were born 
in ferns and moss, cool shadow world. 
I want to touch the fingers of your earliest expanse. 
But woodland principle keeps us distant—

safe even from each other. Our bones know 
not to close the space where light breaks in,
that we are not alone in this majestic 
ruthless ecosystem awash in thorns and toads,

that even the most fragile bird needs a gap 
to learn to leap between. And so we nod, smile, 
limp our wrists to one another in the code 
of old wood. We leave a space between our touching 

in lightning and moonblast. Yet strain 
together for the same star, synthesize survival 
from light. What else can we do with all these hidden 
rings that hold our quietest revolutions? 

How very old and very young we are. 
Let us strain harder toward contact, articulated limbs 
locked, close the wounded canopy with finger-braids, 
feel each other’s pulse while we’re alive.