You stand bare among the oak.
I hold out my arms to grab you up,
yank you into the billowing arms of yew
but you just watch
like I am a drifting cloud.
I feather-fall some finery, boxes
books, a heating fan, a scarf
and you cherry pick them wearily
as though bombs have feather-fallen before
I drape you in myself for winter
my love a cocoon of wool and yew
yet you insist on burrowing out
into the snow, tunneling like a mole
seeking out your blanket of oak.
Heather once sang the oak must go
for new growth to gain a hold.
Love, I am new.