Tree Sap Lace

by M.N. O'Brien

There is a place, a tree sap lace
dripping down the bark.

Where the red and yellow
leaves of summer’s pyre
gather upon the ground in piles,

Where headlines of hurricanes are held
hostage in newsstands,

Where a protective shore of hedges on hills
lays between the curb and the Main Street store
guarding against the wild asphalt yonder,

Where the streetlight hangs a dying metal flower
casting a tent of orange light glow.
on the waving sheets of rain at night,

Where the mountains reach
over the steeple of the church,

Where clouds are forming
cotton cobblestone streets in the sky
leading up to the white lunar light,

The fleece clouds of winter
move to strike anyone gentle enough
to look off the earth.

Take me where curtains of watery heat
rise from the road.

But I am too obviously myself,
to be a stranger anywhere.

There is a place, a tree sap lace
dripping down the bark.
In the amber I remain.