Bruce, I want a tree. A tree
that says, I belong here.
A pine tree—something ecstatic.
Different from sheer drapes, crock
pots, the balding tire. We can start
with one, then add another
and another!            Just think—

the stained carpet covered with loam.
The scent of pine settling in our darkest corners.
A breeze from an open window
making hushy sounds in boughs
sprinkling needles in my hand.

You want to get me this
because I am from the City
and grew up listening through the walls’
thin webbing. A racket of
stickball, puppies on the stoop
and a father’s drunk stumbling.

Imagine, in our house a taste of forest
where we can just stop,
press our foreheads to cool bark
and never
look back again.