GETTING TO KNOW YOU

This morning you find yourself
hugging a tree: it's your front yard
gingko, bare-leafed and rough,
the trunk just narrow enough to get
your arms around. It's one of those
moments when people and trees
come together, when the mind empties
out like spilled milk and you are

that tree; and when the UPS man
climbs out of his truck, surprised
to see you hugging a tree but too polite
to ask why and hands over a package
to sign for, you think: Who is this
woman—and isn't it time to get
to know her? And when the neighbor
who just moved in next door

with six cats and an old red pickup
comes jogging down the road,
you holler, Kettle's on! C'mon in.
And though her eyes widen to see you
stroking the bark of the gingko—she
turns and trots up your walk.
And you know this is exactly what
you were longing for when you

first embraced that tree: a cup
of green tea and a neighbor who looks
bewitching today in her purple
cape, her tall rubber boots and a rusty
frizz of hair that sticks straight up
like an antenna, like a genie
dropped in from some distant star
and in your own front yard.

by Nancy Means Wright                   

Originally published in The Coe Review, '06.

© Copyright 2001- 2007, Nancy Means Wright. All rights reserved.

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