Name of a Tree Poem by Catherine Anderson
Name of a Tree
Some days I am Ana's teacher, some days she is mine.
This morning, we look through her kitchen window,
the one she can't get clean, cobwebs massed
between sash and pane. The sky is blue-gold, almost
the color of home.
Ana, I say, each winter
I get more lonely. Both of us would like the sun
to linger as that round fruit in June, but Ana says
it's better to forget what you used to know...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/26/2024 10:33:37 AM # 1.0.0.1119
