In the circle of my arms, you grew
like a police chief made of bark.
When the curtains blow open,
will you be there still? In the circle
of leaves, you blew on your fingertips,
said the weather would be changing
soon, you’d best be on your way.
I cried like a hobo, to release you.
Every morning now, I wonder if this
will be the day my hands fall off.