Promise

I try not to cast too much shade. Sin would be to use the excuse of her growth in my womb, to imagine her as a limb of myself. She is her own tree, late-winter’s indomitable shoot. She takes cupfuls of sun. I stand well clear as the branches stretch like flutes playing allegros. Not for anything would I poison her with an act of possession, conceal her from the woodsman whose task is to make room for all.