Song of the Oyamel

On the other side of this door You are an oyamel native to the mountains of Mexico Rising in a cloud forest of sister evergreens Shedding pollen cones, shedding winged seeds Our lost wings singly and in pairs. This is why the monarchs vanish Raising sienna-hued colonies longer than my arms Hibernating in Mexico where it’s hotter in January than my front yard, where the red bougainvillea raves And magnolias             with a mauve rush on paper And open as though thinking about last year’s novels Read over the shoulders of garden-strollers Obey the apostle’s exhortation And do everything in love.