John Hoppenthaler
Tree House
Take a walk down your block at three
in the morning. Listen to things
obscured by white noise in daytime:
gargle of a gutter at the end
of Limestone Lane; mild groans
from your neighbor’s tree house;
two maples daring just a little
closer to heaven. Vast orchards
of planets spin away into kilter.
Climb the rope ladder hanging there.
Sit in that far corner where high
moons filter through leaves
& over grass clippings, weekend roses
rot on the compost pile. Flickering
bats can barely be glimpsed dipping
darkness. It will be hard to leave
if you do it right. It will be awful
to stand down again on earth.
