Tree, by Florence Grossman
One night in winter
after the tree had begged for many nights
to come in
I gave permission.
It was not an easy arrangement
the problem of blankets
a place to sleep
the branches curious to touch everything.
Eventually it could compose itself
by the fire.
I would read aloud.
It would listen and nod.
I am sorry it is not spring.
Sap is dripping on the rug.
The branches are feeling their way toward the door.