I give my grief to the cypress tree, blown down by a winter storm, wood chips like ashes, the staccato of logs tossed onto a pile by the rusted burn barrel— a makeshift altar to honor what gave us the melodic song of a wood thrush that one summer, bark ribbons curled in the mouths of mothers, giant leopard moths waiting out the day, a thousand silhouettes at sunset, carpet of green needles, hummingbirds in hiding, the ghost of an orange & white cat napping beneath sweeping, low branches