The Tilted Birch

Each time I come here
I expect the tilted birch
at the cliff's edge

to have fallen to the water
thirty feet below

or to be hanging, headfirst,
by her roots.

Each time, I want to find
some way to save her.

Today, she drops
the gold coins of her leaves
into the lake,

one wish at a time.

I think of Mary,
who lept last May

from a cliff far higher
than this one.

I had watched her
at the edge
for such a long time.

Still, I had believed,
up until the moment the phone
ruptured my sleep,

that there would be
the perfect dose of
prayer and prozac

that love could be
like ropes.

-- Deb Cooper

Send Comments to Greg Gordon MD, CFI, cydoc@earthlink.net
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