April 7th, 2010.

The sun beams down and past the trunk bark.
The backyard is beautiful.
We wander down to the wetter ends, the swamplands, so that I may document them for those I have told so.
A six story tall tree lies uprooted across a deer path, timbered down into wet grass and muck.

(We well witch)

“Hold them out horizontally and parallel in front of you.”
“Like this?”
“Horizontally.”
“This?”
“Up.”

I walk, the metal coat hangers stay parallel and then go awry, bending, unstoppable.

“Here!”

(He well witches)

“Here!”
“Right where I was going to put the garage, we’ll try it again tomorrow.”

The soccer ball comes out, I can still play.
We kick it around, reveling more in our siblingness than the sphere.
Over my head, the run feels good, through the trees.
Mom’s got a conifer garden growing now.

“People always wonder why I like pine cones so much, it’s because I’m your daughter.”

The adolescent pines sit on the edge of the grass opening, in their own little carve outs, like Madonna’s in shrine holes, but better of course.