a carved bowl of wild cherry wood
sits upon the scrubbed pine table
in my kitchen, holding a glory
of woodland fruit, raspberry,
rosehip, crab apple and bitter
blackberry, its live
edge—the stilled rough bark—
outward mark of the cherry tree
that gave its grain to make this gift
sings a boat shape, a soft
lullaby to rock itself to sleep,
and dreams of trees sighing in the dark
