Some mornings the only true thing I can sayTime did not, in the end, take everything.I am still the one who noticed the plum treeLeaf out again in the yard I almost left.Look — it did not ask permission to keep going.How strange, to envy a tree its stubbornness.Even so. Even flattened. Even this tired,Root of me holding, green of me insisting,Every shut thing in me opening anyway.
The poet asked for: The left margin says something. Tell me if it's too cute or if it actually earns its keep.
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