The leaves are not the tree’s clothes
but its mouths, scarfing
up sun to inch ever closer
to what feeds them. The mountain
does not shroud itself in shrubs
out of shame, it shows itself —
a home left unlocked, daring
us to loot it. The smell of upturned soil is
a blessing, a thank you
for taking up the invitation laid
at our feet. Only we
felt the need to cover her
as we cover ourselves. Open up
my loves: let us in. Share
the letter your bones send to your skin.
Fold it into your palm and slip
it between my vertebrae, make me
lean in, inch ever closer
to what feeds me.