How to Grow

I.
We named the tree because it seemed alive:
a girl’s name. Like our mothers, she looked worried.
She had a naked arm, as if stretched from an Easter dress
over the edge of a cliff. It was big, which is really
just another word for strong. Ask anybody.

We brought the rope we found; he hid
the scissors we stole; I tied the knot,
because I was better at tying my shoes.

By the time I climbed down, used spit
to wipe the sap onto my jeans, he was gone.
And then he was back, screaming through a smile
at the joke of hanging over nothing. Risk and refuge; in and out.

II.
I arched my neck to see the Weeping Rock.
It was a periwinkle eye, smooth and slowly dripping,  
stark against a bristly face of evergreen.
I stared back, strained to see the treasure I knew was there.
My brother stood silently beside me; he was looking too.

At dawn we left the trailer park. In those days,
we didn’t need excuses to peel away from the world
of rust, exhaust, and synthetic music over the dusty radio.

Boulders bordered the face, an easy climb.
By the top, we had reached the level of the sun.
We waved to it, then to the tired residents below.
Marveling at how small they seemed. On hands and knees,
We crept to the wet, sloping edge. Then, we stood.