Upon Placing the
Heart of the Sun
Behind Birch Leaves
brian baumgart
86
You’d think the mother would hold her eyes
tight against skin of the lowest root; you’d think
breath would tap its toes from months away;
you’d think a whisper
would be the loudest
cry; you’d know the buzz of spring
in every bird’s lungs. The birch,
this naked skeleton of March, perfect
perch for slight feet, offers itself,
with paper skin alternating between tight
and peeling: this is the way I hope to be.