You have stood outside my window for years,
so when one of your limbs cracked,
dangling from your trunk,
I walked outside
and held the scratchy
tip of you.
I know you didn’t need me to,
but I told you I had called the city,
that they said they would come.
And I told you other things,
about how we don’t get to hug anymore
so that our arms
hang limp like yours
from being so unproductive.
I told you about my kids,
and how they think you’re married
to the tree beside you,
even though not even
their dad and I are married.
But what I really did
was thank you.
For standing outside my window
for so many years,
making it look so effortless,
the constant act
of giving me back
my breath.