Waltz with the tree in my backyard

Along the sun-slatted lines of the back fence,
she teaches me how to waltz - a curtsy, her leaves feather-light on the paving stones -
breeze singing like breezes do.

I trip over her roots, young and learning to live. She laughs;
back brushing the back fence, sun dripping from her branches;
sways me feather-light, raises my palms to the place

where her body turns to years and the spaces between them.
I am made of years, too; my roots are cradled in this earth here, where she
lives in me now, draped in the branches of what my body has done. Later,

we'll watch the light drip down the alfresco blinds, in
the space between words, where breath begins. Cradled in
earth like lovers after they are lovers. A hushed admission -

come back. The other whispers back. It sounds like breeze. It
sounds like singing, like people do.
Where? Us, in the space between ourselves. Home.