These Trees Know They're Ours

The orangery takes on a different shape

when you enter. Citrus branches stretch

until birdsong fills the canopy,

until dappling shadow covers us,

until their freshness takes on depth,

earthy like loosed leather and sweat,

like moss underfoot, bark against back.

I could whisper, if you wanted, breathe

secrets like wind to the very edges of

our windowed grove, but we've no cause

to hide what already lives in the dirt:

these trees know they're ours, my love,

so why shouldn't I sing?