Sky/Branches/Sky
On a low sloping hillside in early December—
where? Tennessee? New Jersey?—we lay back
after a long walk. You went on about something,
maybe politics—I’d stopped listening.
We were inside a circle, tall trunks of bare oak, maple,
the sky above us shot through with dark limbs.
Whatever pain your not loving me, I can’t say now,
left behind so long ago. But indigo sky,
fan of naked trees—their shapes cut a pattern
for bleak joy. However alone, I find the imprint
still holding, sky setting off dark branches, trees
arching on the cold canopy of winter.
Beverly Burch is the author of four poetry collections, most recently Leave Me a Little Want (Terrapin Books). Her books have won a John Ciardi Poetry Prize, a Gival Poetry Prize, a Lambda Literary Award and were finalists for an Audre Lorde Award and a Housatonic Award. She also published two nonfiction books: On Intimate Terms (University of Illinois Presss) and Other Women (Columbia University Press). She lives in Oakland with her wife.